08-27-2015, 02:00 PM
Thick, sludgy water, black and proliferated with bobbing debris, slopped around the goblin’s waist as he trudged through the swamp. His grubby clothing was soaked and tattered, most of it falling off of his lithe, green frame. The bone charms of his many fallen opponents were chipped and shattered, each of them once a testament to his greatness but now only a confirmation of his defeat. He leaned on the half of his staff which remained; the formerly perfect arcane tool still sputtering sparks and coughing clouds of prismatic magic from its snapped neck. On his back a large, ornate, chest was lashed, though even he had no clue what resided within it.
His head still glittered the gold that had allowed him to claim the title of “Da Golden Gobbo,” but now you could see the stark terminus of the magical dust beneath his ripped shirt, a perfect neckline where the collar had caught the powder as it fell from the mystical stones of the temple, preventing it from adhering to his skin.
His beady yellow eyes peered up into the gloom of the swamp, the dark limbs of decaying trees drooping low before him. The distant caw of carrion crows filled his long, pointed, ears, their discordant screeching somehow making the landscape even lonelier.
The small hole that had opened in his heart suddenly swelled, and the numbness of sorrow flooded through his body, the desolation of his spirit consuming him as his feet slowly began to sink into the mire.
[spoiler]
Grobdum crept through the encampment, the ramshackle structures that had been erected by the troupe actually reminding him of his old home amid the orcs. Jury-rigged tentage stood beside buildings hewn of branches, mud and leaves, the odd scrap of metal forming a roof or wall. Improvised tools and stations were littered about the town, each of the members taking up some useful task or another. Lazy fire pits sat under the awnings of the shelters, protected from the frequent downpours of rain.
He clutched something in his hands close to his chest, his eyes nervously searching for suspicious eyes as he darted from cover to cover. The familiar shadows of dusk aided in his concealment, every shade of the camp well known to him by now. He listened for the rustle of people in their makeshift homes as he slunk between corners, bobbing and weaving as people walked along the muddy pathways.
At last he had returned to his target: a collection of shrubs just at the edge of the pointed wooden palisade that encircled them. Pushing the leaves aside, he revealed a small burrow and pushed his pointed face into it, his gangly limbs scrambling in after it.
Popping through the hole, he plopped down onto the dirt a few feet below. The fading light of the sun trickled in through the opening, though the rest of the den resided in darkness. Crawling forward, he bared his teeth and shuffled along, ingested by the unknown.
After a few minutes, the space opened up and he was able to stand. Reaching into the bleakness, he withdrew a large chunk of golden stone and closed his yes. His sharp tongue protruded from his lip as he focused on the power of the stone, shaking it back and forth as if to agitate it into action. It began to glow, slowly increasing in brightness and luster as he focused. Purple and blue light shimmered across every surface in the hovel, misty power breathing from the stone which was once a portion of the temple the adventurers had escaped so long ago.
He could feel the protest of the magical item, the sensation that it was meant to be used for more. As it was though, he had no compunctions about stealing its light for his own purposes.
Twisting roots crawled along the smooth, natural, black-granite walls, small holes in the floor giving rainwater somewhere to rush when the lair flooded. Small niches, what must have been at least three dozen, were carved into the rock walls by crude tools that the goblin had pilfered from the humans above. Each of the carved spaces was just large enough to hold what they held, creating an almost naturally artistic display for the treasures.
Grobdum placed the shining stone on a small plinth of lashed bone that stood in the center of the room, the space now filled with its light. He rushed over to the wall and found an empty cubby, checking his coveted item against each, trying to find just the right space for it. With a gasp, he compared the item against the niche and grinned, gingerly placing it down inside. It was perfect.
Lyra’s arrow caught the light of the stone in a way that particularly appealed to the goblin, the bright fletching creating to the potent purple and blue in a captivating way. He stepped back to admire the wall of stolen baubles: a magazine from Christa’s pistol, one of Richtoffen’s syringes, a scrap of Isaac’s red cloak.
Almost every member of the group had donated an item to Grobdum’s collection. Paramount amid the curios was the tightly rolled map which had been reclaimed from the temple. Frequently he would unroll it and study it, though he knew little of where it led or what it meant to the rest of the group.
Again his slender fingers reached for it, and by the stolen light of the stolen stone, he read his stolen map once again. His dirty nails traced the lines that cut through the Tangled Green, informing a clear road to a portal beyond the swamps that lie no more than a few miles away. His wandering distraction sated, he rolled the map back up and placed it back where it belonged.
Turning, he sighed and took a deep breath. Hopping up, he scrambled back through the tunnels of the burrow and into the encampment. He waited at the mouth of the hole, always careful not to reveal his little hideaway to the rest of the group. When he was sure that none could see him, he crawled out.
The sky had rolled fully into night by now, and most of the camp was already in their beds. He knew that Christa wouldn’t be, but for the most part he had the place to himself. He preferred to sleep during the first half of the day, if only to avoid most of the heat (and work). What few skills he had without the full use of his magic were best used during the end of the day in any case, and the brightness of the sun bothered him more than he was happy to admit. More than once he had gotten in trouble for casting the encampment into an unnatural shadowy gloom.
Grobdum wandered over towards his favorite place to sit and burn the hours, a fire circle that overlooked a small valley below the palisade. He plopped down on his favorite stump and reclined gently, a self-satisfied smile creeping over his face. For once in his short, violent, life, the goblin felt something like peace.
“Hey, gobbo,” a familiar voice rang, irritated as usual. He sat up and looked back, Lyra storming towards him. “Did you take one of my arrows?” she demanded bluntly.
“’Oo, me?” he stammered, eyes darting back and forth as he hunched into a miserable little ball. “I ain’t took noffin’!” his voice quavered as he folded his hands behind his back, his foot dragging back and forth on the ground. “I wuz jus’ sittin’ by da fire, Big ‘Un, I swears it!”
Scowling, she planted her hands on her hips, “You know, if you need something, you can just ask for it.” She walked over to the diminutive greenskin and knelt down to his level. Her eyes locked with his, and she offered him the smallest of smiles, “We’re not in a place like you were before. We’re here for each other, or at least most of us are. You can trust us. We all want the same thing: to find Omni. We all want to help each other to get there.”
Sighing, she stood and walked over to the unlit fire pit, staring at the charred wood and coals. “The way I grew up, I had to steal a lot too. I had to steal to survive.” She balled her hand into a fist as her mind drifted back to those earlier days of pain and suffering, “But now? Even in this place, with all the crap we’ve been through,” she looked back to the goblin and grinned, “I still have hope. If we help each other, we can make it there. Together.”
The goblin’s eyes were cast to the ground and for the first time in his life he felt bad for taking something. His fang-toothed mouth parted, but his words caught in his throat. He looked up to the girl from Hyrule, a pensive expression on his face. “I…” he muttered, but found himself unable to go on.
Lyra nodded, walking back over to him, “It’s ok. I understand.” Smiling she touched his arm once again. “I know it can be hard to stop. Just remember, I’m here if you need somebody to talk to.”
Her fingers gently left him and she walked back into the city of tents. He stared into the darkness, still too stunned even to think. Gradually, his heart fluttered in his chest, a sensation he had never felt before. His small claw reached up and grabbed at the grubby fabric of his shirt and he marveled at the warm feeling that bled into his limbs.
“I’z sorry,” he choked, the blankness of his expression failing to mask his emotion.
Dragging his feet, he stumbled back to his log, staring into the same burned wood that she had. With a wave of his wand, the kindling exploded into screaming flame, several chunks of wood careening into the sky with a billow of green smoke. He took a long, deep breath before wheezing it out, his face still caught in an expression of confusion and wonder.
Plopping down on the seat, he propped his chin up on his hand, considering the flickering of the fire. He sat there as the color of the sky grew deeper and the stars spiraled over their world on the hill, the nagging sensation of unease refusing to leave his belly.
And then the sound of steel being drawn whispered in the night. Turning, the goblin saw Clayton standing with weapon in hand. “Grobdum, is it?”[/spoiler]
With a shriek of anger, Grobdum lurched forward, wrenching his feet from the quagmire. A grim look of determination washed over his face, his eyebrows furrowed and nostrils flared. He planted his broken staff and drug himself forward, driving it into the ground again and again as he moved, only the burning heat of rage pushing him onward.
The only goal he had left, the only meaning he had in his life anymore, laid ahead. The barren emptiness that threatened to devour him whispered in his ears, pulling at his feet. Every part of him wanted to sink, wanted to resign to the swamp, but even that seemed pointless now.
He would find it, because that’s all that was left to do.
[spoiler]
It had been simple to find the Bonecrusha Tribe. They left a swath of destruction behind them, the broken bodies of their victims and their burning buildings an easy means of tracking the WAAAGH! as it carved through the Tangled Green.
As he drew closer to the rampaging orc army, he began to feel the overwhelming magic of their emotion wash through him, a beacon that drew him like a moth to the flame. The rhythm of war was in the goblin’s blood, and the drums were pounding on the horizon. It came easily for him to move to the beat.
The Warboss of the Boncrushas, creatively nicknamed, “Bonecrusha,” was a massive brute of a black orc. The black orcs were bigger, stronger, and many times more disciplined than their green counterparts, and this one was even bigger than the rest. Using a skilled team of black orc lieutenants, Bonecrusha kept the WAAAGH! war machine rolling with a sense of purpose and direction.
Even the famously deadly ninjas that dwelled within the Tangle were no match for Bonecrusha’s brutal but cunning tactics and his horde’s overwhelming size and power. Village after village fell to the Boncrushas, nothing to be said of their conquests but blood. The orcs took no prisoners and left no monuments to their grandeur. Death was their only legacy.
Grobdum’s prowess as a shaman slowly gained him a reputation within the group, his spells weaving through the battlefield like a plague of venom and hate. Entire troops of elves had fallen to his explosive green beams of power, devoured the sun in black clouds that spanned miles, imbued the warriors with horrible skill and accuracy, and transformed the horde into a sea of slavering, poison-fanged monsters. The world bent at the knee for Grobdum, and the Bonecrushas lopped off the head.
For all of his potency, there was one aspect that stood out even amid the austere black orcs: his fearlessness. When other goblins were turning tail and fleeing, Grobdum stormed onward, the tiny spellcaster standing alone in the face of the enemy. As the thick ranks of towering, muscle-bound orcs fled in terror, Grobdum marched with a warcry in his throat, magic flying from his fingers. Soon, the rank and file began to fear the forbidding gobbo, and rumors circulated that he had been chosen by the orcish gods Gork and Mork. The goblin never addressed those rumors and instead sat alone in his hovel as the horde reveled in his victories.
The Bonecrusha’s campaign had run along the Animus River for several days before finally it came to a crossing point. The bright wisps that circled the trees were the orcs’ first indication of a target and a brief but bloody encounter with a group of nightsaber-mounted huntresses confirmed Bonecrusha’s suspicions of a nearby night elf settlement.
The secreted city of Ashenvale was as prepared as it could be for the massive WAAAGH! when it arrived, Glaive Throwers and a sea of archers staring from across the Animus’ rushing waters. Planted along the riverbed were the towering Ancient Protectors, massive treants with a penchant for hurling boulders.
The river, the bottleneck of passable terrain and the army of highly-trained ranged fighters were daunting, even for Bonecrusha and his legendary WAAAGH! Apprehension won over the cunning black orc, and instead he chose to move the horde up river and find another crossing so that they could double back. Such a worthy opponent would be worth the wait.
Roaring orders from the back of his dire boar, Bonecrusha began to move the forces away, rallying them into the well-covered tree line before any elf had the audacity to fire at them. The entire army had moved, except for one frail goblin that stood on the beach.
“Oi, gobby!” one of the ink-skinned lieutenants roared at him, “Get ovah ‘ere ‘afore I gots’ta smash ya!” He brandished his choppa and stormed towards him, his dark eyes seeing the archers readying their bows. “Come’ on ya git!” he insisted, reaching out to grab him.
An arc of power flashed from the shaman’s flesh, green light burning the orc’s hand to a stump. As the lieutenant staggered back and howl in agony, Grobdum slowly lifted his trembling hands above his head. His eyes were rolled back in his head, the surging power of magic slowly turning the sky into a churning sea of boiling clouds, lightning sparking down in the distance. Wild winds began to whip around him, his piecemeal robes fluttering in every direction.
“Da Bad Moon,” he growled, a supernatural undertone echoing, “RISES!”
In a flash of green energy, a massive crescent moon formed over the night elf forces, a cruel, goblinoid face glaring down at them. Slowly, the huge moon’s tusked mouth opened, and a vortex of awful power flowed from it.
Without a change to move or react, scores of night elves were instantly engulfed by the vortex and torn into pieces. Their war machines were reduced to intricately carved shards of wood, and their venerable Ancients were almost instantly uprooted and destroyed in a howl of pain and destruction. Before the first volley was even fired, the entire night elf force was routed and left in ruin.
The convergence of mystical power slowly died as the shaman released his focus on the destructive spell, allowing it to spiral wildly out of control. The Bad Moon cackled as it vomited destruction down onto the world, its wide, white eyes growing bloodshot and insane. The horrible cyclone continued into the city, its arcane winds reducing the picturesque town to a blast zone. Grobdum stood on the banks, his expression blank, and watched.
When the moon finally had its fill, it slowly banked up from its downward stare, its cartoonish eyes wildly open. It turned to face the opposite bank, blood dribbling from its insane, fanged grin and down its hooked and cratered chin. Two smoldering black pupils met with its creators, the distorted goblin face frozen in a gruesome glare of unnatural madness. Grobdum stared back into it, his cold features unmoving and unmoved. Slowly the moon’s mouth opened and a cruel laugh bellowed out. As the deep guffaws echoed into the trees, it slowly faded away into nothingness, though the feeling of its gaze remained long after it was gone.[/spoiler]
There was no rest in the swamp.
For every step that Grobdum took forward, he the horizon crept one step further away. It was a never-ending sea of muck and darkness, his withered skin wrinkled and creased from the hours it spent submerged in the darkened waters. Silently, he pleaded to the world to offer him a patch of dry land, the tiniest mote of reprieve from the devouring silt that threatened to swallow him whole.
“Ya kin’t stop me,” he grumbled to the sludge. “Noffin’ kin stop me.”
His feet trod onward, heedless to the grasping hands that haunted him below the surface.
[spoiler]
Bonecrusha snorted as he twirled his massive Crushy Choppa between his fingers. “Ya ain’t know whatcha got yaself inta, lil’ ‘un,” he growled, his brusk tone unable to conceal his growing fear. His heavy steel armor clanked with every thunderous step, five hundred pounds of orc behind every step. “It’s such a shame ya gots ta get smashed like dis, maybe I kin forgive ya if ya swears ta be me shit wipah from ‘ere on out.” The insult inspired the thick ring of orcs that surrounded them to, “Ooo,” and hiss, provoking the encounter further.
Grobdum stood across from the towering orc, no larger or stronger than he ever had been. In his hand was a trophy from his most fabled victory: The Staff of the Verdant Circle. Perched amid its spiral of living vines and leaves sat the skull of Ashenvale’s Warden, lashed to his own weapon after the goblin had taken his head.
The goblin’s now legendary, cold stare, “Da Stare of Da Bad Moon,” followed the black orc back and forth as he bellowed. Grobdum had long since lost his fear of the tyrant’s size, lost fear of anything or anyone. He would not run from this man, nor anything else.
“You tink you da baddest?” he said softly, and even though his voice was quiet it cut through the crowd’s clamor.
Snarling, Bonecrusha spat, “Wot ya say ta me?”
Grobdum’s body didn’t move an inch. “I done asked ya: Do ya tink you da baddest?”
Slamming his choppa into the ground, Bonecrusha roared, “I’Z DA BADDEST DERE EVAH WUZ, AN’ EVAH WILL BE!”
A faint smirk grew on Grobdum’s lips. “You ain’t noffin’.”
Screaming in frustration, the black orc charged his miniscule opponent, the cheers and hollers of their orc peerage pushing him onward through his trepidation. The huge bar of steel and wood for which the Warboss had earned his name trailed after him, his tightly bundled muscles flexing in preparation to bring it down on Grobdum’s head.
“Don’t worry,” the goblin murmured, “Gork’ll Fix It,” and gently tapped his staff into the ground. The crowd collectively took a breath of shock when nothing happened and Bronecrusha’s choppa hurdled down.
The smashy log of a weapon created a huge crater in the ground on impact, dirt and stone flying up in debris and raining down upon the onlookers. The Warboss let out a grunt of shock when he saw the tiny greenskin looking up at him from the spot had been before, still unmoved. Tearing the choppa from the earth, he swung again, this time the attack soaring over Grobdum’s head. Howling in rage, he grasped the weapon in both hands and brought it down once again, narrowly missing the goblin’s head. “Wot’s dis magic!?” he bawled in bewilderment.
Withdrawing a long dagger from his belt, Grobdum lazily thrust it in the orc’s direction, his magic leading it to the thin gap in his breastplate. With a gurgle of blood, Bonecrusha toppled. The crowd hushed suddenly, too shocked even to applaud his bloodshed.
Crawling up onto the black orc’s body, Grobdum plucked his knife from the monster’s chest and held it aloft. Turning, he faced the burning sun, holding his arms out towards it. As the rays beat down upon him, something strange began to happen. At first, it was a soft glimmer that appeared upon his brow, but soon the glittering gold caught and reflected more and more light.
That ancient dust that had covered him at the temple so long ago flickered and glowed with mystical energy as Grobdum ascended to yet another pinnacle of magical power, absorbing the esoteric medium’s power in a wash of radiant golden light.
Looking upon his own transformation, Gorbdum turned his hands back and forth and admired his newfound luster. He could not claim to understand it, though the power that now flowed through him felt… right, somehow. He shut his eyes and once again basked in the once-hated light of the sun, taking in all of its glory.
Turning away, he opened his eyes and the gold-fleshed creature looked upon his horde. “No longah iz ya da Bonecrushas!” he commanded, his tiny voice stretching across the throngs of green skinned savages, “Now you’z da Golden Boyz!”
The WAAAGH! cheered and whooped in ferocious approval of their new Warboss.
“And I knowz jus’ where da Golden Boyz are gonna strike next!”
Raw Onion’s shout could be heard from across the entire camp. “Something’s coming!” was all she could think to say, the expanse of rushing green and golden shapes worming through the dense forest that surrounded their hill.
Grobdum’s legions of followers had taken to painting wide stripes of golden war paint over their faces and armor, adding a layer of literal meaning to their moniker. In the center of the terrifying display sat Grobdum in a golden throne atop a gargantuan arachnid, the monster easily fifty feet long. Other forest goblins clung to the sides of the Araknarok Spider, perched on rickety altars and howdahs constructed of saplings and bound with spider’s silk.
Rushing to the palisades that surrounded their encampment, the group stared into the mob of orcs and goblins with wide-eyed horror. “Dear God,” Clayton uttered, loosely gripping his shotgun, his mess of oily hair tumbling around his face.
“Alright!” Christa barked, rallying the collection of combatants, “Everyone get to our defensive spots! Overlapping sectors of fire! Weapons hot!” She ran towards her own station, quickly taking aim and firing without a second thought.
Lightning split the sky as Raw Onion called down the clouds, Crow’s pistols cracked in rapid succession, Grave’s gunblades cast bright and dark flames in thick swaths, Abner’s rifle echoed and Richtoffen’s laser weapon sang as the melee combatants prepared for the inevitable swell of orcs over their makeshift defenses.
“They be comin’ up!” Crow shouted, unsheathing his blades and moving backwards, “Prepare yerselves for boardin’!”
Top Man was the first to leap into battle, spinning and striking with robotic efficiency and power. Klaud’s whip lacerated even the burliest orc down to the bone. Isaac’s forged blades of blood and sliced the hamstrings of a few orcs before being forced to put them down. Even Pinocchio contributed to the warfare, his strings and wit tripping up and misleading the brutal but not so cunning members of the WAAAGH!
Droves of the greenskins were pushed back from the edges of the camp, bodies piling up as every manner of weapon was wielded against them. The waves of greenskins crashed into them again and again in a seemingly endless stream of brutality.
These were no savage orcs with simple stone spears and axes, they were battle-hardened veterans, part of a much greater and better-equipped force. Gargantuan spiders skittered over their buildings and struck at odd angles, insane night-goblins spun huge spiked balls attached to chains at maddening speeds, Spear Chukkas hurled massive trebuchet bolts from the distance. For such a tiny number of heroes to face such an insane force was madness.
Retreat was an ever-tantalizing option for most of them, but Christa’s leadership held them firm. Still, Grobdum the Golden Gobbo sat atop his titanic Araknarok, watching.
Rushing past a troop of dead orcs, Clayton climbed atop the palisades. “Come on then!” he howled, his shotgun reporting into another target. “Come on, you damned orc thing! COME ON!” A gap in the orcish horde allowed Clayton to hold both his hands out at his sides, “Come on you evil, loathsome monster! Are you afraid to face me!?” The hunter’s body was wracked frenzy, the derangement of fear, exhaustion and the desperate desire to be trusted guiding his insane actions.
For the first time in months, Grobdum’s emotions were evident. His features snapped into a thing of fury, and he held the Staff of the Verdant Circle over his head, the Warden’s skull clattering against its wood. “WAAAGH!!!” he wailed, his war cry echoed by the newly reinvigorated horde of Golden Boyz.
The Araknok spider-god lumbered forward, the howdah goblins hurling spears and casting arrows in every direction. The enormous beast drove its spindly limbs into the earth and tore it apart as it mounted the hill, a huge burst of venomous spit spraying from its mouth when it reached the acme.
Grobdum’s eyes were filled were green power, his baleful stare casting a pair of bobbing, twitching green beams down upon his most hated foe. Clayton barely had time to move when the beams exploded into a plume of emerald light. The secondary force caught the hunter and flung him harshly against one of the large stones that formed the fire circle.
Leaping from the massive spider, Grobdum landed a few yards from Clayton, brandishing his staff. Groaning, Clayton rolled over and shook his swimming head, trying to focus through his latest concussion. The goblin slowly walked forward, ignoring the pandemonium that surrounded him, his attention caught on his singular prize. Clayton managed to get to his hands and knees and reached out for his shotgun. Grobdum kicked it away.
“You tink ya da baddest?” Grobdum asked coldly, looking down at his foe.
Clayton’s bleary eyes looked up to the golden shaman, fear and pain wracking him. He could think of nothing to say, nothing to do, in the face of this madness, this utter insanity that had arrived upon their doorstep. Instead, he sat back on his knees, straightened his back, and waited.
“You ain’t noffin’,” Grobdum spat bitterly and lowered his staff to Clayton’s face.
As the magic bubbled up in his chest, as he wove his hate into an animate power, as he prepared to destroy Clayton and wipe him from the face of the world forever, he heard a scream. He recognized the voice, and could not help but turn. Grobdum’s eyes fell upon Lyra, just a few feet from her tent, lifted from the ground by a choppa buried to the hilt in her chest.
His heart sank in an instant. His breath caught in his throat, just as it had on that night so long ago, and his body welled with emotion. His hands trembled and his knees went weak, his mouth opened but words refused to come forth.
The orc tore the blade from her and stormed away, only to be blown in half by one of Grave’s gunblades. She lay motionless on the ground, blood pooling around her. Grobdum took a step towards her, but was cut off as his staff was blasted in two with the discharge of Clayton’s shotgun. Spinning on his heel, Grobdum smashed the splintered half of the staff over the hunter’s temple, knocking him to the ground. Clayton attempted to bring his gun back to bear, but the goblin slammed the wooden haft into him again and again, screaming in pain and fury.
When finally Clayton lay still and quiet, the once glorious Warboss rushed over to the thief’s side. He rolled her onto her back, holding her head in his tiny clawed fingers. He looked down upon her as her life dribbled between her ribs and down into the earth.
“No,” he simpered, “No!” He clutched her body against his head, her blood smearing over the golden glittering surface of his skin. Pulling his head back, he whined, “I’z…” he coughed, and for the first time in his entire life, he felt bad for the death of a creature. A strange wetness formed on his cheeks, rolling down from his eyes, dapping on her cheeks and forehead. “I’z,” he tried again, raggedy voice choking on itself. “I’z sorry, Lyra,” he finally yelped, his voice small and powerless, “I’z so sorry.”
Looking up to the golden sun, he awaited some miracle to come from the heavens, some reprieve from the guilt and pain he felt cutting through his gut. Nothing came but the sounds of chaos and death, the chaos and death that he had brought to this place. His horde, his name, his WAAAGH! It was his fault.
Suddenly, his head perked up, and he looked to the far side of the camp, at the corner of the palisade. A sudden sense of purpose filled him, and he flicked the stump of a staff towards the small bush, and it erupted, taking the entire section of the encampment and a platoon of orcs with it. Sprinting as fast as his small legs could carry him, Grobdum leapt into the crater.
There, in the center of the hole, was the granite cave, and all the cubbies he had filled. The contents of the burrow were all but rotted away, like the memories of joy he had with these people, in this place, but one object remained whole. Snatching it up, he paused and glanced over at the map one final time, and left it behind as he scrambled up and out of the hole.
He clutched the item in his hands close to his chest, his eyes nervously searching for suspicious eyes as he darted from cover to cover. The familiar shadows of dusk aided in his concealment, every shade of the camp well known to him by now. He listened for the clamor of people at their makeshift defenses as he slunk between corners, bobbing and weaving as people raced along the muddy pathways.
Finally he reached he target, and knelt down beside her. He focused his mind, and allowed the magic to draw itself, uncaging what he had repressed before. Opening his hands, purple and blue lights shimmered outwards, dancing over Lyra’s face. The stone beamed as the magic flowed through it, seeping into her body, weaving together what once had been broken. The light grew and grew until finally it consumed Grobdum and Lyra both, blinding anyone who dared look upon them.
Lyra took a deep breath, but her eyes remained closed. Grobdum’s hard features broke into the faintest of smiles, and he touched her arm. “I knowz I didn’t do da right ting, but maybe…” he paused, nervously holding back his quavering voice, “Maybe we kin find it togethah one day.”
With that, the golden goblin slunk into the shadows and vanished, leaving his army to its eventual defeat at the hands of the brave adventurers.[/spoiler]
Tears streamed down the goblin’s face, his ragged sobs his only companion in the gloom. His steps grew slowly, but still he moved onward, onward towards the only goal he had left. Sadness consumed him, but it was this sadness that now defined him. No rage, no anger, no madness. It was pain that he was cast from; the pain of losing the only soul that might have ever called him a friend.
Maybe, somewhere beyond here, he would find her again.
His head still glittered the gold that had allowed him to claim the title of “Da Golden Gobbo,” but now you could see the stark terminus of the magical dust beneath his ripped shirt, a perfect neckline where the collar had caught the powder as it fell from the mystical stones of the temple, preventing it from adhering to his skin.
His beady yellow eyes peered up into the gloom of the swamp, the dark limbs of decaying trees drooping low before him. The distant caw of carrion crows filled his long, pointed, ears, their discordant screeching somehow making the landscape even lonelier.
The small hole that had opened in his heart suddenly swelled, and the numbness of sorrow flooded through his body, the desolation of his spirit consuming him as his feet slowly began to sink into the mire.
[spoiler]
Quote:
Grobdum crept through the encampment, the ramshackle structures that had been erected by the troupe actually reminding him of his old home amid the orcs. Jury-rigged tentage stood beside buildings hewn of branches, mud and leaves, the odd scrap of metal forming a roof or wall. Improvised tools and stations were littered about the town, each of the members taking up some useful task or another. Lazy fire pits sat under the awnings of the shelters, protected from the frequent downpours of rain.
He clutched something in his hands close to his chest, his eyes nervously searching for suspicious eyes as he darted from cover to cover. The familiar shadows of dusk aided in his concealment, every shade of the camp well known to him by now. He listened for the rustle of people in their makeshift homes as he slunk between corners, bobbing and weaving as people walked along the muddy pathways.
At last he had returned to his target: a collection of shrubs just at the edge of the pointed wooden palisade that encircled them. Pushing the leaves aside, he revealed a small burrow and pushed his pointed face into it, his gangly limbs scrambling in after it.
Popping through the hole, he plopped down onto the dirt a few feet below. The fading light of the sun trickled in through the opening, though the rest of the den resided in darkness. Crawling forward, he bared his teeth and shuffled along, ingested by the unknown.
After a few minutes, the space opened up and he was able to stand. Reaching into the bleakness, he withdrew a large chunk of golden stone and closed his yes. His sharp tongue protruded from his lip as he focused on the power of the stone, shaking it back and forth as if to agitate it into action. It began to glow, slowly increasing in brightness and luster as he focused. Purple and blue light shimmered across every surface in the hovel, misty power breathing from the stone which was once a portion of the temple the adventurers had escaped so long ago.
He could feel the protest of the magical item, the sensation that it was meant to be used for more. As it was though, he had no compunctions about stealing its light for his own purposes.
Twisting roots crawled along the smooth, natural, black-granite walls, small holes in the floor giving rainwater somewhere to rush when the lair flooded. Small niches, what must have been at least three dozen, were carved into the rock walls by crude tools that the goblin had pilfered from the humans above. Each of the carved spaces was just large enough to hold what they held, creating an almost naturally artistic display for the treasures.
Grobdum placed the shining stone on a small plinth of lashed bone that stood in the center of the room, the space now filled with its light. He rushed over to the wall and found an empty cubby, checking his coveted item against each, trying to find just the right space for it. With a gasp, he compared the item against the niche and grinned, gingerly placing it down inside. It was perfect.
Lyra’s arrow caught the light of the stone in a way that particularly appealed to the goblin, the bright fletching creating to the potent purple and blue in a captivating way. He stepped back to admire the wall of stolen baubles: a magazine from Christa’s pistol, one of Richtoffen’s syringes, a scrap of Isaac’s red cloak.
Almost every member of the group had donated an item to Grobdum’s collection. Paramount amid the curios was the tightly rolled map which had been reclaimed from the temple. Frequently he would unroll it and study it, though he knew little of where it led or what it meant to the rest of the group.
Again his slender fingers reached for it, and by the stolen light of the stolen stone, he read his stolen map once again. His dirty nails traced the lines that cut through the Tangled Green, informing a clear road to a portal beyond the swamps that lie no more than a few miles away. His wandering distraction sated, he rolled the map back up and placed it back where it belonged.
Turning, he sighed and took a deep breath. Hopping up, he scrambled back through the tunnels of the burrow and into the encampment. He waited at the mouth of the hole, always careful not to reveal his little hideaway to the rest of the group. When he was sure that none could see him, he crawled out.
The sky had rolled fully into night by now, and most of the camp was already in their beds. He knew that Christa wouldn’t be, but for the most part he had the place to himself. He preferred to sleep during the first half of the day, if only to avoid most of the heat (and work). What few skills he had without the full use of his magic were best used during the end of the day in any case, and the brightness of the sun bothered him more than he was happy to admit. More than once he had gotten in trouble for casting the encampment into an unnatural shadowy gloom.
Grobdum wandered over towards his favorite place to sit and burn the hours, a fire circle that overlooked a small valley below the palisade. He plopped down on his favorite stump and reclined gently, a self-satisfied smile creeping over his face. For once in his short, violent, life, the goblin felt something like peace.
“Hey, gobbo,” a familiar voice rang, irritated as usual. He sat up and looked back, Lyra storming towards him. “Did you take one of my arrows?” she demanded bluntly.
“’Oo, me?” he stammered, eyes darting back and forth as he hunched into a miserable little ball. “I ain’t took noffin’!” his voice quavered as he folded his hands behind his back, his foot dragging back and forth on the ground. “I wuz jus’ sittin’ by da fire, Big ‘Un, I swears it!”
Scowling, she planted her hands on her hips, “You know, if you need something, you can just ask for it.” She walked over to the diminutive greenskin and knelt down to his level. Her eyes locked with his, and she offered him the smallest of smiles, “We’re not in a place like you were before. We’re here for each other, or at least most of us are. You can trust us. We all want the same thing: to find Omni. We all want to help each other to get there.”
Sighing, she stood and walked over to the unlit fire pit, staring at the charred wood and coals. “The way I grew up, I had to steal a lot too. I had to steal to survive.” She balled her hand into a fist as her mind drifted back to those earlier days of pain and suffering, “But now? Even in this place, with all the crap we’ve been through,” she looked back to the goblin and grinned, “I still have hope. If we help each other, we can make it there. Together.”
The goblin’s eyes were cast to the ground and for the first time in his life he felt bad for taking something. His fang-toothed mouth parted, but his words caught in his throat. He looked up to the girl from Hyrule, a pensive expression on his face. “I…” he muttered, but found himself unable to go on.
Lyra nodded, walking back over to him, “It’s ok. I understand.” Smiling she touched his arm once again. “I know it can be hard to stop. Just remember, I’m here if you need somebody to talk to.”
Her fingers gently left him and she walked back into the city of tents. He stared into the darkness, still too stunned even to think. Gradually, his heart fluttered in his chest, a sensation he had never felt before. His small claw reached up and grabbed at the grubby fabric of his shirt and he marveled at the warm feeling that bled into his limbs.
“I’z sorry,” he choked, the blankness of his expression failing to mask his emotion.
Dragging his feet, he stumbled back to his log, staring into the same burned wood that she had. With a wave of his wand, the kindling exploded into screaming flame, several chunks of wood careening into the sky with a billow of green smoke. He took a long, deep breath before wheezing it out, his face still caught in an expression of confusion and wonder.
Plopping down on the seat, he propped his chin up on his hand, considering the flickering of the fire. He sat there as the color of the sky grew deeper and the stars spiraled over their world on the hill, the nagging sensation of unease refusing to leave his belly.
And then the sound of steel being drawn whispered in the night. Turning, the goblin saw Clayton standing with weapon in hand. “Grobdum, is it?”[/spoiler]
With a shriek of anger, Grobdum lurched forward, wrenching his feet from the quagmire. A grim look of determination washed over his face, his eyebrows furrowed and nostrils flared. He planted his broken staff and drug himself forward, driving it into the ground again and again as he moved, only the burning heat of rage pushing him onward.
The only goal he had left, the only meaning he had in his life anymore, laid ahead. The barren emptiness that threatened to devour him whispered in his ears, pulling at his feet. Every part of him wanted to sink, wanted to resign to the swamp, but even that seemed pointless now.
He would find it, because that’s all that was left to do.
[spoiler]
Quote:
It had been simple to find the Bonecrusha Tribe. They left a swath of destruction behind them, the broken bodies of their victims and their burning buildings an easy means of tracking the WAAAGH! as it carved through the Tangled Green.
As he drew closer to the rampaging orc army, he began to feel the overwhelming magic of their emotion wash through him, a beacon that drew him like a moth to the flame. The rhythm of war was in the goblin’s blood, and the drums were pounding on the horizon. It came easily for him to move to the beat.
The Warboss of the Boncrushas, creatively nicknamed, “Bonecrusha,” was a massive brute of a black orc. The black orcs were bigger, stronger, and many times more disciplined than their green counterparts, and this one was even bigger than the rest. Using a skilled team of black orc lieutenants, Bonecrusha kept the WAAAGH! war machine rolling with a sense of purpose and direction.
Even the famously deadly ninjas that dwelled within the Tangle were no match for Bonecrusha’s brutal but cunning tactics and his horde’s overwhelming size and power. Village after village fell to the Boncrushas, nothing to be said of their conquests but blood. The orcs took no prisoners and left no monuments to their grandeur. Death was their only legacy.
Grobdum’s prowess as a shaman slowly gained him a reputation within the group, his spells weaving through the battlefield like a plague of venom and hate. Entire troops of elves had fallen to his explosive green beams of power, devoured the sun in black clouds that spanned miles, imbued the warriors with horrible skill and accuracy, and transformed the horde into a sea of slavering, poison-fanged monsters. The world bent at the knee for Grobdum, and the Bonecrushas lopped off the head.
For all of his potency, there was one aspect that stood out even amid the austere black orcs: his fearlessness. When other goblins were turning tail and fleeing, Grobdum stormed onward, the tiny spellcaster standing alone in the face of the enemy. As the thick ranks of towering, muscle-bound orcs fled in terror, Grobdum marched with a warcry in his throat, magic flying from his fingers. Soon, the rank and file began to fear the forbidding gobbo, and rumors circulated that he had been chosen by the orcish gods Gork and Mork. The goblin never addressed those rumors and instead sat alone in his hovel as the horde reveled in his victories.
The Bonecrusha’s campaign had run along the Animus River for several days before finally it came to a crossing point. The bright wisps that circled the trees were the orcs’ first indication of a target and a brief but bloody encounter with a group of nightsaber-mounted huntresses confirmed Bonecrusha’s suspicions of a nearby night elf settlement.
The secreted city of Ashenvale was as prepared as it could be for the massive WAAAGH! when it arrived, Glaive Throwers and a sea of archers staring from across the Animus’ rushing waters. Planted along the riverbed were the towering Ancient Protectors, massive treants with a penchant for hurling boulders.
The river, the bottleneck of passable terrain and the army of highly-trained ranged fighters were daunting, even for Bonecrusha and his legendary WAAAGH! Apprehension won over the cunning black orc, and instead he chose to move the horde up river and find another crossing so that they could double back. Such a worthy opponent would be worth the wait.
Roaring orders from the back of his dire boar, Bonecrusha began to move the forces away, rallying them into the well-covered tree line before any elf had the audacity to fire at them. The entire army had moved, except for one frail goblin that stood on the beach.
“Oi, gobby!” one of the ink-skinned lieutenants roared at him, “Get ovah ‘ere ‘afore I gots’ta smash ya!” He brandished his choppa and stormed towards him, his dark eyes seeing the archers readying their bows. “Come’ on ya git!” he insisted, reaching out to grab him.
An arc of power flashed from the shaman’s flesh, green light burning the orc’s hand to a stump. As the lieutenant staggered back and howl in agony, Grobdum slowly lifted his trembling hands above his head. His eyes were rolled back in his head, the surging power of magic slowly turning the sky into a churning sea of boiling clouds, lightning sparking down in the distance. Wild winds began to whip around him, his piecemeal robes fluttering in every direction.
“Da Bad Moon,” he growled, a supernatural undertone echoing, “RISES!”
In a flash of green energy, a massive crescent moon formed over the night elf forces, a cruel, goblinoid face glaring down at them. Slowly, the huge moon’s tusked mouth opened, and a vortex of awful power flowed from it.
Without a change to move or react, scores of night elves were instantly engulfed by the vortex and torn into pieces. Their war machines were reduced to intricately carved shards of wood, and their venerable Ancients were almost instantly uprooted and destroyed in a howl of pain and destruction. Before the first volley was even fired, the entire night elf force was routed and left in ruin.
The convergence of mystical power slowly died as the shaman released his focus on the destructive spell, allowing it to spiral wildly out of control. The Bad Moon cackled as it vomited destruction down onto the world, its wide, white eyes growing bloodshot and insane. The horrible cyclone continued into the city, its arcane winds reducing the picturesque town to a blast zone. Grobdum stood on the banks, his expression blank, and watched.
When the moon finally had its fill, it slowly banked up from its downward stare, its cartoonish eyes wildly open. It turned to face the opposite bank, blood dribbling from its insane, fanged grin and down its hooked and cratered chin. Two smoldering black pupils met with its creators, the distorted goblin face frozen in a gruesome glare of unnatural madness. Grobdum stared back into it, his cold features unmoving and unmoved. Slowly the moon’s mouth opened and a cruel laugh bellowed out. As the deep guffaws echoed into the trees, it slowly faded away into nothingness, though the feeling of its gaze remained long after it was gone.[/spoiler]
There was no rest in the swamp.
For every step that Grobdum took forward, he the horizon crept one step further away. It was a never-ending sea of muck and darkness, his withered skin wrinkled and creased from the hours it spent submerged in the darkened waters. Silently, he pleaded to the world to offer him a patch of dry land, the tiniest mote of reprieve from the devouring silt that threatened to swallow him whole.
“Ya kin’t stop me,” he grumbled to the sludge. “Noffin’ kin stop me.”
His feet trod onward, heedless to the grasping hands that haunted him below the surface.
[spoiler]
Quote:
Bonecrusha snorted as he twirled his massive Crushy Choppa between his fingers. “Ya ain’t know whatcha got yaself inta, lil’ ‘un,” he growled, his brusk tone unable to conceal his growing fear. His heavy steel armor clanked with every thunderous step, five hundred pounds of orc behind every step. “It’s such a shame ya gots ta get smashed like dis, maybe I kin forgive ya if ya swears ta be me shit wipah from ‘ere on out.” The insult inspired the thick ring of orcs that surrounded them to, “Ooo,” and hiss, provoking the encounter further.
Grobdum stood across from the towering orc, no larger or stronger than he ever had been. In his hand was a trophy from his most fabled victory: The Staff of the Verdant Circle. Perched amid its spiral of living vines and leaves sat the skull of Ashenvale’s Warden, lashed to his own weapon after the goblin had taken his head.
The goblin’s now legendary, cold stare, “Da Stare of Da Bad Moon,” followed the black orc back and forth as he bellowed. Grobdum had long since lost his fear of the tyrant’s size, lost fear of anything or anyone. He would not run from this man, nor anything else.
“You tink you da baddest?” he said softly, and even though his voice was quiet it cut through the crowd’s clamor.
Snarling, Bonecrusha spat, “Wot ya say ta me?”
Grobdum’s body didn’t move an inch. “I done asked ya: Do ya tink you da baddest?”
Slamming his choppa into the ground, Bonecrusha roared, “I’Z DA BADDEST DERE EVAH WUZ, AN’ EVAH WILL BE!”
A faint smirk grew on Grobdum’s lips. “You ain’t noffin’.”
Screaming in frustration, the black orc charged his miniscule opponent, the cheers and hollers of their orc peerage pushing him onward through his trepidation. The huge bar of steel and wood for which the Warboss had earned his name trailed after him, his tightly bundled muscles flexing in preparation to bring it down on Grobdum’s head.
“Don’t worry,” the goblin murmured, “Gork’ll Fix It,” and gently tapped his staff into the ground. The crowd collectively took a breath of shock when nothing happened and Bronecrusha’s choppa hurdled down.
The smashy log of a weapon created a huge crater in the ground on impact, dirt and stone flying up in debris and raining down upon the onlookers. The Warboss let out a grunt of shock when he saw the tiny greenskin looking up at him from the spot had been before, still unmoved. Tearing the choppa from the earth, he swung again, this time the attack soaring over Grobdum’s head. Howling in rage, he grasped the weapon in both hands and brought it down once again, narrowly missing the goblin’s head. “Wot’s dis magic!?” he bawled in bewilderment.
Withdrawing a long dagger from his belt, Grobdum lazily thrust it in the orc’s direction, his magic leading it to the thin gap in his breastplate. With a gurgle of blood, Bonecrusha toppled. The crowd hushed suddenly, too shocked even to applaud his bloodshed.
Crawling up onto the black orc’s body, Grobdum plucked his knife from the monster’s chest and held it aloft. Turning, he faced the burning sun, holding his arms out towards it. As the rays beat down upon him, something strange began to happen. At first, it was a soft glimmer that appeared upon his brow, but soon the glittering gold caught and reflected more and more light.
That ancient dust that had covered him at the temple so long ago flickered and glowed with mystical energy as Grobdum ascended to yet another pinnacle of magical power, absorbing the esoteric medium’s power in a wash of radiant golden light.
Looking upon his own transformation, Gorbdum turned his hands back and forth and admired his newfound luster. He could not claim to understand it, though the power that now flowed through him felt… right, somehow. He shut his eyes and once again basked in the once-hated light of the sun, taking in all of its glory.
Turning away, he opened his eyes and the gold-fleshed creature looked upon his horde. “No longah iz ya da Bonecrushas!” he commanded, his tiny voice stretching across the throngs of green skinned savages, “Now you’z da Golden Boyz!”
The WAAAGH! cheered and whooped in ferocious approval of their new Warboss.
“And I knowz jus’ where da Golden Boyz are gonna strike next!”
-----
Raw Onion’s shout could be heard from across the entire camp. “Something’s coming!” was all she could think to say, the expanse of rushing green and golden shapes worming through the dense forest that surrounded their hill.
Grobdum’s legions of followers had taken to painting wide stripes of golden war paint over their faces and armor, adding a layer of literal meaning to their moniker. In the center of the terrifying display sat Grobdum in a golden throne atop a gargantuan arachnid, the monster easily fifty feet long. Other forest goblins clung to the sides of the Araknarok Spider, perched on rickety altars and howdahs constructed of saplings and bound with spider’s silk.
Rushing to the palisades that surrounded their encampment, the group stared into the mob of orcs and goblins with wide-eyed horror. “Dear God,” Clayton uttered, loosely gripping his shotgun, his mess of oily hair tumbling around his face.
“Alright!” Christa barked, rallying the collection of combatants, “Everyone get to our defensive spots! Overlapping sectors of fire! Weapons hot!” She ran towards her own station, quickly taking aim and firing without a second thought.
Lightning split the sky as Raw Onion called down the clouds, Crow’s pistols cracked in rapid succession, Grave’s gunblades cast bright and dark flames in thick swaths, Abner’s rifle echoed and Richtoffen’s laser weapon sang as the melee combatants prepared for the inevitable swell of orcs over their makeshift defenses.
“They be comin’ up!” Crow shouted, unsheathing his blades and moving backwards, “Prepare yerselves for boardin’!”
Top Man was the first to leap into battle, spinning and striking with robotic efficiency and power. Klaud’s whip lacerated even the burliest orc down to the bone. Isaac’s forged blades of blood and sliced the hamstrings of a few orcs before being forced to put them down. Even Pinocchio contributed to the warfare, his strings and wit tripping up and misleading the brutal but not so cunning members of the WAAAGH!
Droves of the greenskins were pushed back from the edges of the camp, bodies piling up as every manner of weapon was wielded against them. The waves of greenskins crashed into them again and again in a seemingly endless stream of brutality.
These were no savage orcs with simple stone spears and axes, they were battle-hardened veterans, part of a much greater and better-equipped force. Gargantuan spiders skittered over their buildings and struck at odd angles, insane night-goblins spun huge spiked balls attached to chains at maddening speeds, Spear Chukkas hurled massive trebuchet bolts from the distance. For such a tiny number of heroes to face such an insane force was madness.
Retreat was an ever-tantalizing option for most of them, but Christa’s leadership held them firm. Still, Grobdum the Golden Gobbo sat atop his titanic Araknarok, watching.
Rushing past a troop of dead orcs, Clayton climbed atop the palisades. “Come on then!” he howled, his shotgun reporting into another target. “Come on, you damned orc thing! COME ON!” A gap in the orcish horde allowed Clayton to hold both his hands out at his sides, “Come on you evil, loathsome monster! Are you afraid to face me!?” The hunter’s body was wracked frenzy, the derangement of fear, exhaustion and the desperate desire to be trusted guiding his insane actions.
For the first time in months, Grobdum’s emotions were evident. His features snapped into a thing of fury, and he held the Staff of the Verdant Circle over his head, the Warden’s skull clattering against its wood. “WAAAGH!!!” he wailed, his war cry echoed by the newly reinvigorated horde of Golden Boyz.
The Araknok spider-god lumbered forward, the howdah goblins hurling spears and casting arrows in every direction. The enormous beast drove its spindly limbs into the earth and tore it apart as it mounted the hill, a huge burst of venomous spit spraying from its mouth when it reached the acme.
Grobdum’s eyes were filled were green power, his baleful stare casting a pair of bobbing, twitching green beams down upon his most hated foe. Clayton barely had time to move when the beams exploded into a plume of emerald light. The secondary force caught the hunter and flung him harshly against one of the large stones that formed the fire circle.
Leaping from the massive spider, Grobdum landed a few yards from Clayton, brandishing his staff. Groaning, Clayton rolled over and shook his swimming head, trying to focus through his latest concussion. The goblin slowly walked forward, ignoring the pandemonium that surrounded him, his attention caught on his singular prize. Clayton managed to get to his hands and knees and reached out for his shotgun. Grobdum kicked it away.
“You tink ya da baddest?” Grobdum asked coldly, looking down at his foe.
Clayton’s bleary eyes looked up to the golden shaman, fear and pain wracking him. He could think of nothing to say, nothing to do, in the face of this madness, this utter insanity that had arrived upon their doorstep. Instead, he sat back on his knees, straightened his back, and waited.
“You ain’t noffin’,” Grobdum spat bitterly and lowered his staff to Clayton’s face.
As the magic bubbled up in his chest, as he wove his hate into an animate power, as he prepared to destroy Clayton and wipe him from the face of the world forever, he heard a scream. He recognized the voice, and could not help but turn. Grobdum’s eyes fell upon Lyra, just a few feet from her tent, lifted from the ground by a choppa buried to the hilt in her chest.
His heart sank in an instant. His breath caught in his throat, just as it had on that night so long ago, and his body welled with emotion. His hands trembled and his knees went weak, his mouth opened but words refused to come forth.
The orc tore the blade from her and stormed away, only to be blown in half by one of Grave’s gunblades. She lay motionless on the ground, blood pooling around her. Grobdum took a step towards her, but was cut off as his staff was blasted in two with the discharge of Clayton’s shotgun. Spinning on his heel, Grobdum smashed the splintered half of the staff over the hunter’s temple, knocking him to the ground. Clayton attempted to bring his gun back to bear, but the goblin slammed the wooden haft into him again and again, screaming in pain and fury.
When finally Clayton lay still and quiet, the once glorious Warboss rushed over to the thief’s side. He rolled her onto her back, holding her head in his tiny clawed fingers. He looked down upon her as her life dribbled between her ribs and down into the earth.
“No,” he simpered, “No!” He clutched her body against his head, her blood smearing over the golden glittering surface of his skin. Pulling his head back, he whined, “I’z…” he coughed, and for the first time in his entire life, he felt bad for the death of a creature. A strange wetness formed on his cheeks, rolling down from his eyes, dapping on her cheeks and forehead. “I’z,” he tried again, raggedy voice choking on itself. “I’z sorry, Lyra,” he finally yelped, his voice small and powerless, “I’z so sorry.”
Looking up to the golden sun, he awaited some miracle to come from the heavens, some reprieve from the guilt and pain he felt cutting through his gut. Nothing came but the sounds of chaos and death, the chaos and death that he had brought to this place. His horde, his name, his WAAAGH! It was his fault.
Suddenly, his head perked up, and he looked to the far side of the camp, at the corner of the palisade. A sudden sense of purpose filled him, and he flicked the stump of a staff towards the small bush, and it erupted, taking the entire section of the encampment and a platoon of orcs with it. Sprinting as fast as his small legs could carry him, Grobdum leapt into the crater.
There, in the center of the hole, was the granite cave, and all the cubbies he had filled. The contents of the burrow were all but rotted away, like the memories of joy he had with these people, in this place, but one object remained whole. Snatching it up, he paused and glanced over at the map one final time, and left it behind as he scrambled up and out of the hole.
He clutched the item in his hands close to his chest, his eyes nervously searching for suspicious eyes as he darted from cover to cover. The familiar shadows of dusk aided in his concealment, every shade of the camp well known to him by now. He listened for the clamor of people at their makeshift defenses as he slunk between corners, bobbing and weaving as people raced along the muddy pathways.
Finally he reached he target, and knelt down beside her. He focused his mind, and allowed the magic to draw itself, uncaging what he had repressed before. Opening his hands, purple and blue lights shimmered outwards, dancing over Lyra’s face. The stone beamed as the magic flowed through it, seeping into her body, weaving together what once had been broken. The light grew and grew until finally it consumed Grobdum and Lyra both, blinding anyone who dared look upon them.
Lyra took a deep breath, but her eyes remained closed. Grobdum’s hard features broke into the faintest of smiles, and he touched her arm. “I knowz I didn’t do da right ting, but maybe…” he paused, nervously holding back his quavering voice, “Maybe we kin find it togethah one day.”
With that, the golden goblin slunk into the shadows and vanished, leaving his army to its eventual defeat at the hands of the brave adventurers.[/spoiler]
Tears streamed down the goblin’s face, his ragged sobs his only companion in the gloom. His steps grew slowly, but still he moved onward, onward towards the only goal he had left. Sadness consumed him, but it was this sadness that now defined him. No rage, no anger, no madness. It was pain that he was cast from; the pain of losing the only soul that might have ever called him a friend.
Maybe, somewhere beyond here, he would find her again.
Quote:Used: Healing Stone, Goddess’ Fortune
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