Going to Town
"Well, dis was painful," blurted out a drenched figure as he pulled himself from a ship's hull. "An' he'e I thought I coulda swam dat creek." The "creek" Bimblesnaff referred to was actually a sea. He had recently tried to depart from an island, and the locals he had invoked the ire of, only to nearly drown from exhaustion out in the middle of the waters. Luckily, with some lenience to the meaning of the word, a passing vessel had him in its course and plastered him to its bough for some distance. Finally coming to shore, the Ghobling felt liberated from the water torture device.
"Strike it all! 'Thas swept off all m' wondahful odors and such," moped the lunatic while looking himself over as the sickening stench of cleanliness filled his nostrils. "If I nevah see watahs again, 'twill be too soon." After smacking his lipless mouth, he came to a realization. "Damn, I'm thirstin'." His need quickly dismissed his previous thought as he knew some distributor of spirits had to be sought. He would just drink from the sea, but it just kept making him thirstier for some reason unbeknownst to him. To his liking, it was currently nightfall for his traveling. While the darkness was his natural element, his reason of preference was less functional. It was in Bogg's current belief that the sun was stealing his corn. Granted, he had not owned any corn, ever, but this lacking only fueled his argument to the outrageous accusation. Pleased with the shadowed landscape, he trekked among the surface world obstacles that he had yet to learn the names of in bounds and tumbles. His acrobatic displays were accredited to natural guile, but, truth be told, being stuck against a hull for some time had robbed him of his land legs.
Slowly, and painfully, he stumbled along a dirt road into an above ground community. The sight of the hideous and bland box shaped buildings wrenched his stomach, and this meant something when coming from an individual who regularly ate what he found laying behind bushes. The goblin could never understand erecting houses on top of the earth when putting them inside of it worked out better, but he could never understand much of anything given his mental state. The path he had been walking inconveniently passed through the belly of the town, leaving him far too few shadows to comfortably slide among. Sneaking around to the opposite faces, he scurried his way on top of an outer lying establishment where he could waft the night air into his prominent nose to seek out the ale he longed for. His talons clattered on the roof tops as he leapt between them, falling onto the ears below as nothing more than playful vermin. Granted, these assumptions were not far off. Bogg knew he was close as the scent of expelled bodily gases and, to a less analyzed extent, fluids complimented that of the mead. Greedily lashing out his dripping, vile tongue, he spotted the posting for which of the identical land blocks, in his eyes, contained the alcohol. He could not read what the sign said, having never been trained to even read his race's script, but he had seen enough bars in his time to recognize when one was one. There was one occasion, ought five years ago, where he was mistaken, but he wound up getting such a wonderful hair styling that he did not mind.
"Didn't think I could do it by m'self, eh?" Just as Bimblesnaff prepared to leap onto the tavern, those words were whispered. Stopping himself from projecting, he lost balance after flailing his arms around and crashed flat on his face. Peaking up the brim of his hat that had fallen over his eyes, he looked for the speaker, finding a goblin holding a sack. It was not one of his exact kin but an inferior offshoot, easily discernable, even to the maniac, by the most notable lack of a tail. The dim moonlight bounced off its greasy, sloped brow, turning the pristine silver into a putrid hue of green. Bent ears rose up above the squat, flat head as crooked teeth protruded from the jaw. Its claws grasped a misshapen bag stuffed with various oddly shaped objects. Its garb was most peculiar as it seemed too well composed for the typical goblin. It seemed more like the clothing of a human peasant, smelling like it, too, and was several sizes too large for the dwarfed being. In fact, it seemed as if it was the clothing off a man's back. All of these blatantly obvious clues fell well short of piercing the ignorant barrier surrounding Bogg's supposed brain.
"What's dat, snacky?" asked the lunatic, uncertain as to why he was being addressed by a stranger.
"I can't believe they sent a new guy to check up on me," stated the goblin to no one. "I got the stuff right here. Didn't she think I could do it?"
"Gwah?" Bimblesnaff was more confused than usual, which is pretty confused.
"What's with ya, new guy? Are yer simple orders too much for ya? Don't just lie there," the unknown goblin yelled, tossing the bag at Bogg, burying him under a clash of settling objects. "Take that bunch back to the Queen, since she is so impatient to get her loot. I'm gonna try to get somethin' good for her." The goblin's anger faded as fast as it had come as he stared off into nothing with longing eyes and a heavy sigh. "Oh, m' Queen. I shall win yer favor yet." Snapped back into reality while reapplying an angry scowl, he dashed off into the darkness to conduct his shadowy business, the darkness being the preferred location for such dealings. Not certain to what had just transpired, who that goblin was, what he was talking about, why he mistook him, why the sky was blue, or why he had trouble breathing, the Ghobling had remembered that there was a heavy sack currently resting on top of him, and thus had one of his questions answered. Rolling off the awkwardly shaped sack, he was curious as to its contents. After growing annoyed with trying to untie its knot, he tore into it with his claws, slashing the side. Out spilled a treasure trove of total trash. Anything that one would think no one would need but had laying around was present in the deposited pile. Tankards, utensils, candlesticks, shoes, needles, bones, buckets, empty containers, buttons, and other such worthless items were present.
"What is up wit' dat?" queried Bimblesnaff, now being the one talking to himself. "Was de'e nothin' good left ta steal or what?" Rummaging through the mess one last time to ensure that nothing was of value or tasted interesting, he pushed the heap aside. "Bah, a plague 'pon dat naive fer leavin' m' wit' dis junk. I dun want it." Bogg did not care too much for, what he considered, his lesser kin. The petty crimes committed by the inferior green skins reflected badly upon his fellow Ghoblings' own pettier crimes. Additionally, people could never tell the difference between the two very similar breeds, which he felt was an outrage. Of course, the fact that he was even mistaken for any type of goblinoid was a bit surprising given his recent recoloring. The dim moonlight and heavy cloak of darkness must have masked Bogg's already covered skin, causing the goblin to rely mainly on shape. It was this line of reasoning that the maniac came no where close to drawing up.
Rising back to his feet, and removing a bitter tasting candlestick holder from his mouth, he regained focus on his task at hand: getting liquored up. Making a stunning bound across the wide alley, he planted a sure landing on the pub's roof, which, he failed to note, was a lot steeper than the roofs of the other houses in this hamlet. His feet scurried frantically, seeking some type of hold but ultimately failed. He fell backwards, flipping around to see his death as it approached. Still having not gotten that drink, he acted fast to save his life by pulling his massive hook blade from his back. Driving the bent point into the face of the bar's wall, he carved a long scratch into the surface. He came to a stop half way down and used the opportunity to wipe the sweat from his brow. Not thinking, he used the hand that was currently holding onto his sword and plunged the rest of the way.
"Strike it all," cursed the Ghobling, splayed out in the alley as his weapon soon followed, landing between his legs. Despite any possible injuries, he ran his hand along the ground and sniffed it. "Now why does dat smell familiah? ... oh. ... ew..."
Mistaken Identity
As the Ghobling struggled to pull himself from the ground, and filth, a blade's tip appeared in his line of vision. Following it to its source, he saw a round, spongy, human hand clasping the knife's handle. Tracing up the arm, he found it belonged to a portly gent, not dressed shiftily or for mugging but in cloths stained with bits of food from the day's wear. He reeked of alcohol but not on his breath. This, plus the apron, the fact that his knife was more of a utensil than a weapon, and that he was currently leaning out of the tavern's double doors told Bimblesnaff that this may have been the barkeep.
"Oi, you green skinned punk," he snarled with a fierce face, "ain't you bastards more careful when goin' 'bout your stealin's? Looks like you slipped up this time, and it's gonna cost you." By now, Bogg would have cut the man down for such rudeness, normally. However, his weapon was not at hand, so he would have to rely on diplomacy.
"Filthy man," hissed Bogg, "ya must be dumbah than I look." Diplomacy was not his strong point. "I ain't been takin' squat from ya." Turning his head, he muttered softly, "yet. I ain't got any int'rest in yer junk, eithah." Cued, the sack of stolen loot rolled from its lofty resting place, scattering a bounty of missing items around the ally. "Dat ain't mine."
"And why should I believe anyone of your color?" the dispenser of ale questioned, drawing the blade closer to the neck. "Your band has been pluckin' this place clean. You're nothin' but a bunch of lyin', thievin' wretches."
"True, but," the lunatic began his defense off poorly, "I ain't one o' dem lowly losahs. Can't ya just tell?" Bimblesnaff posed his face at "his angle," sending shivers down the man's spine.
"Never do that 'gain," ordered the man, still trying to remove the image that plagued his mind. "Okay, so you ain't one of them," he accepted, seeing the true color of his hostage's skin in the better light, "but you got to be some type of monster."
"I dun e'en see why ya're gettin' so worked up o'ah a guy sittin' in a pile o' spools and bones," bantered on the maniac, "when da scum what left dis junk he'e was goin' aftah somethin' bettah."
"Better? You jest," dismissed the human. "You- er, they've taken 'bout everythin' save the boards in the walls, and even some of those are missin'. Why, I'd say all I have left is my bar and two cows-" His words cut from an annoyed bovine moan from out in his pasture. Two skinny cows, while not much, were still enough for the selfish goblins to plunder. He could probably scare it off, but if the thing decided to get him in a scuffle, it would leave quite a few smarting marks before parting. He then remembered the persuasion he currently held on someone, persuasion in the form of a knife. "Alright, buddy, I'll believe you ain't no monster, but you gotta prove that I should. Protectin' my cattle should be a trial good 'nough."
"Pfft," the more than hesitant Bogg scoffed, "an' why should I do dat?" Removing the knife from the Ghobling's neck, he drew it quickly down to his crotch and added a menacing stare to get his point across. "Sooo, what?" The barkeep sighed, having his fill of idiocy for the night.
"You'll get a flagon on the house," he answered with a roll of his eyes. Bimblesnaff's beady eyes brightened with joy. "So, does that sound good? ... Oi?" A faint cloud of dust was all that remained in his captive's stead that trailed off to the pasture in course with a shallow trench dug from the dragged hook blade.
In no way trying to fake stealth, Bogg dashed around to the small lot behind the tavern, seeking the cows. His ears perked as he honed in on their rising bellows. With his subterranean eyes piercing through the dark, he spotted his targets. Both of the cows trotted about in random directions for short spurts, trying to escape a persistent nuisance. A goblin, the same one from earlier dressed in the cloths of a man twice his size, chased after one cow at a time, holding a large sack.
"Get in the sack," he commanded, trying to fit the bag around their flanks before getting kicked off. "C'mon! Get in the sack already!"
"What a moron," commented Bimblesnaff as he spit out the candlestick holder again, curious to if its taste had improved since the last time he tasted it. "Hey, snacky, 'membah me?"
Pulling the culprit's attention away from the cow's rump, he wailed, "Ah, ya gotta be kiddin' me! Ya ain't takin' this one from me, new guy. I'm doin' this for m' queen, and it's me who's gettin' the thanks." Staring off into space, he clasped his hands together with a heavy sigh. "Oh, m' Queen..."
"Goblins ha'e no queen," an outraged lunatic finally exploded. "We got us a king, King Ghob, an' he ain't got no stinkin' queen. He got several of dem broads, but none o' dem a'e more 'portant then da rest." Taking in a deep breath, he ended his rant. "Anyhoo, ya're gonna ha'e ta stop dat."
"You ain't one of us?" the goblin came to finally realize. "So ya ain't with the Queen? Then who are ya? Just some random ... freak?" Bogg shrugged. "Well, if ya think ya can stop me, ya're gonna have to prove it." Dropping the sack, he threw up two fists and circled them in a threatening manner that just came off as humorously pathetic. Unable to contain himself, the maniac broke out into a fit of laughter. The high-pitched shrieking barely phased the ears of his kin, but the cows were driven mad by the sound. Bucking in a fit, the cow currently wearing the bag on its rear drove a hoof back, shattering the skull of the common goblin, bursting it into a pleasant array of grey matter and dark blood.
"Well, dat's dat," Bimblesnaff proclaimed and repeated at the tavern, slamming down his claw on the bar top, leaving a bloody lump on it. "Whe'e's m' mead?"
"What... did you do to him?" the bartender questioned, looking at the lump while filling a mug.
"I busted his brains open is what I did," smugly boasted Bogg, taking his drink.
"This is his brain?" the man blurted, analyzing the small lump in his hands. "I always knew their kind were dumb, but-"
"No, dat's not his brains," corrected the maniac, "dat's his piece."
"Piece?" The bartender was puzzled by what was meant at first but immediately dropped the chunk upon realizing. "You sick freak! Why did you give that to me? ... Or cut it off?" The former green skin shrugged.
"Dat's what we do." It is not what they do.
"Well, that mess 'side," diverted the human, "you really seemed to handle that guy quickly... You know, I already got another guy handling his matter, but I'm sure he could use the help. How would you like 'nother round?" A crooked smile flashed from above the already empty mug. "Great. Now, these little turds have turned into an infestation as of late. At first they used to just keep to themselves, but somethin' happened as of late. Now they just break into our homes. Food, gold, livestock, they take it all. As matter of fact, I don't think I've seen Mrs. Ester's daughter Polly in a while-" The barkeep was distracted from his speech as Bogg circled his bandaged claw, imploring that the man get straight to the point. "Right. Well, these guys seem to be squattin' in a barn 'round here..."
On orders and the promise of a more thoroughly quenched gullet, Bimblesnaff set out with a torch in hand to find the barn that had the infestation. He came upon a very large box of wooden boards, which, from what he could tell, was this "barn" spoken of to him. It was much larger than any of the other structures he was accustomed to happening upon, after all. Raising his wicked weapon in his other hand, he broke the door's latch, too busy to fumble with how to open it by the pesky "intended" manner. Leaping in, he raised the flame high to spread the light, but it had died down from his long walk and cast little for him to see from. Without even the glow of the moon or stars, even his dark trained eyes had trouble making out any shapes in the large, empty space. Realizing that he was standing upon kindling, he hastily scooped up a hand of straw for a quick and brilliant blaze. In a sudden flash, he saw what was in the barn: ... nothing. It was entirely void of filling, which explains why he could not see anything. There was positively nothing in the building, save for the scatter hay that lay on the floor. Hanging his head in disappointment, a sudden sting came to his claw. Recoiling sharply, he saw that it was the lit straw he held, which had the fire run its course and finally meet with his hand. Landing on the dry, parched floor, flame spread quickly, engulfing most of the area and climbing the support beams fast. Whistling nonchalantly, the lunatic walked backwards to the opening he had come from as the barn was reduced to embers. Peering to his left, he noticed another, similar structure that had the faint sound of goblins emitting from it.
"Well, now dat I got dis one dealt wit'," the Ghobling fooled himself, cracking his knuckles, "I guess I'll clean out dat one too 'cuz I'm just dat nice."
The Correct Barn
Horrid screams and shrieks of agony echoed from the boarded box as Bimblesnaff cautiously approached. He could hear the cries of his brethren as they passed onto their final breath. Hordes cried up, and each was silenced one by one. Their cause of agony was that "help" the barkeep mentioned before. Luckily, Bogg was not much of a family man, or, for that matter, a man of any kind. Blood may be thicker than wine, but ale is much thicker than blood. If the lower green skins were being finished off, the lunatic would be sure to take credit for it. Barging into the lower loft, he saw the goblin swarm sprawling up the walls. They were meager and scrawny, even by the race's standards. The clan must have been a smaller lot and malnourished on top of that.
"Fleein' already, ya cowahds?" the Ghobling boasted haughtily and silently in his head as not to ruin his advantage of surprise. The act made him cunning, not a dastard, in his view. In a defiant bound, he raked a razored foot down one of the "fleeing's" backs, pulling it back down to the floor, knocking down a few more under it along its fall. Swinging around his blade beneath himself, he latched on his talons to the inner bend of its broad top and crashed upon the fallen in a heavy cleave, leaving the pile in two. Parting the earth once more, he released his hold upon his weapon, only leaving the chain in his grasp. Planting his other palm firmly against the interior wall, he pulled up his arm in a wide arc, whipping around the hook blade in a cutting circle, clearing the boards of much vermin and wrists of much hands. Pushing off with his still placed hand, his body was propelled to the center of the space. He never reached it, however, as his wildly swung weapon snagged onto some rafters.
After some severe strain on his arm, his body spun in a shrinking circle around a pillar before smashing his beak-like nose into it and ultimately slid down the aged structure, filling his face with splinters. Recovering from his daze, Bimblesnaff was pleased that only a small percent of the goblins had witnessed his folly, but this was still out of a several dozen of the scourges, putting the odds out of his liking and bringing it to an even fight. Digging his nails into the crumbling column, the lunatic scampered up frantically to avoid the offensive tide. Reaching the top, which doubled as the floor to the second level, he peaked his head out from some curled up boards only to nearly catch an arrow. Pulling back for safer and more alive observations, the rain of shafts seemed to be directionless. Volleys poured out abound, sticking goblins high and low as though mutiny had gone afoot. The other crusader was the cause for this deceptive appearance amidst the battle's fury, but Bogg had other ideas in mind.
"Oh, joy! Arrow fight!" Yes, Bimblesnaff could recall many arrow fights in his youth. The local children, and sometimes adults, would grab their bows, sticks, rocks, or whatever they would find at hand and shower the selected target of the game in good fun. The target would have to try and avoid as much of the objects as possible. He was not too sure how the target won the game, nor was he clear on why he was always randomly selected as the game's target. His childhood memories came to quick end as grubby fingers clawed their way at his lower half. In his attempted escape, he pressed against the curved boards, straining them, before the horde loosed his footing. Releasing the stored pressure, Bogg was catapulted down through the cluster, scattering some into a spray of bodies that littered the barn floor in several bloody splats and the rest into a fleshy cushion that stained the floor in one large, bloody lump. Digging his hook blade out of the gut of a scum it had impaled, the act of cutting down the hapless foes was revisited. As heads rolled and chests were punctured, the maniac watched the inner walls. The flow of goblins up to the top level had been matched by a retreat to the bottom as the panicking imps could not tell which place was safer for them to flee.
"I've had enough o' this," cried out a particularly stressed green skin brandishing a torch. "I'm comin', m' Queen," it declared as it dashed over to a pile covered with a rotten blanket. Pulling back the sheet, a rig was revealed cradling a massive barrel on a slant with a broom sticking out of its lid. Sloppily painted on the side was the phrase, "To the moon," over a series of three X's. Each of the words was misspelled with many of the letters backwards, all of which Bimblesnaff could not tell since he could not read a word of any language, regardless. Mounting the wooden shaft, the goblin lowered the flame to a wick sticking out from the bottom of the cask. Removing the goggles left dangling on the broom's end, the fiend prepared itself for a ride on the barrel rocket. A poorly crafted device, even if given that the design could possibly work, the mechanism was the piecewise conception born from rumors of similar devices rumored in the East. Several details were ignored, but the one that stuck with them was, most unfortunately, explosives. As the wick burned away, Bimblesnaff did not stick around to see the results. He knew little, and most of that knowledge pertained to alcohol as he had spent much of his young life around it. One of the few facts he did know was that fire was not alcohol's friend. Springing along heads like stones through a creek, the Ghobling dove through a window before the fuse reached the keg and the inevitable occurred.
Safely reaching the ground, or as safe as it could be reached when throwing oneself upon it with bits of broken glass, what remained of the shattered frame was blown out by the detonation of the ill-conceived mode of transportation. Relieved, Bimblesnaff stuck his hook blade in the earth, standing on its corner, and splayed himself out flat. Fate had smiled upon him, and he was saved from being exploded. This was where his luck ran out. The aged barn let out a long, thundering creak. The blast had shaken its rotten structure, and its outer walls now fell outward upon him. As though that were not enough, the unsupported second level fell into the vacant space below and collapsed, spewing out a mess of smoke, searing embers, and flaming goblins. The few support beams that remained, scarred and burning, eventually teetered over in random directions. One was his. As the survivors of the diminutive horde ran out, some in their last steps, the smoldering pile stirred. A thick, ash-caked mitt, riddled with splinters, managed to pull itself out and struggled to free the body it was attached to. Trying to right himself, his other limb seemed pinned beneath the rubble, and a powerful yank was needed to pull it free. Charred and shredded, the Ghobling looked terrible, even in comparison to his norm, and felt worse. Aches and pains throbbed throughout his whole body. However, the few threads that seemed to hold his prized jacket together amazingly persevered. Satisfied with their durability, he hoisted his belt in a confident display only to have the coat crumble to bits. Every piece of his beloved garment, the hat, sleeves, and tail, went to dust. Only a few stray bandages stayed wrapped around his torso.
An eye twitched as suppressed raged started to boil deep within his soul. With clear thoughts, he knew what he must do: find where the rest of the goblins were, ride a pony, and then kill the remainder of the inferior green skins. Kicking about the broken mess, he looked for his weapon. Among the jagged boards and crispy imp parts, a pair of cracked goggles was buried. It was the same pair that the kobold destined to get "to the moon" was wearing. The lunatic snatched the lenses up, largely due to them being a shiny object but also since he would need a new way to keep the sun out of his eyes without his brimmed headgear. Clearing away some more of the heap, he eventually uncovered his sword, or what was left of it. The falling pillar had bent the already twisted weapon out of shape and snapped the blade in two places. It was of a rather shoddy make, so its destruction was not a surprise. Bimblesnaff should have known this best, after all, as he was the one that forged it. Unintelligible curses fumed from Bogg's wretched mouth as he stooped to salvage what he could of the disaster with his spare hand until he realized that he could not do it.
"Dat pony ride," the maniac growled with more eye twitching, "is gonna hafta wait..." The pony was lucky. The fiend tended to turn pony rides into meals.
A Quick Stop
The barkeep wiped off a mug to serve to some late night customers awakened by the night's commotion. Plenty were too scared to stay home but most were more afraid to leave. The doors swung open, yet no one seemed to enter. During his conversation with one of the nocturnal customers, heavy foot falls approached the bar, ending with the scraping of a stool along the floor. The nearby patron was unsettled by the unseen figure and hastily moved further down.
"Oi, so you're back?" the bartender called out to the short freak hidden behind the counter, predicting who had arrived. "Sure have been makin' quite the ruckus. Did you at least get 'em all?"
"Ain't none left in da hay box," coughed the Ghobling, throwing an arm onto the bar top to reach the ale he expected. "Ya can be sure o' dat." The server smiled and slid down a full pitcher of spirit. The doors swung open again as a raving man dressed in cloths that could be considered refined for a peasant broke through. His hair was groomed, his face was shaved, and he wore a vest. In this town, that came across as fancy.
"Oh, my word! This is most awful," he dramatically proclaimed, swooning into a seat. "Fire is everywhere! The town is burning to the ground! Oh, most terrible this day has become!" Slowly, the hand placed over his face moved out of his view to behold the thing sitting besides him. "Oh, my lord!" he shrieked, jumping from his place. "What in goodness is this horrid creature?"
"Oh, shut it, you big baby," snapped the barkeep. "You should be thankin' this queer fellow, odd as he may be. He's the one that got rid of our goblin problem. Exterminator, this here is Albert, Ms. Polly's fiancé."
"The problem has only started," boldly corrected the addressed man, making sure to keep the source of his discomfort out of view. "Those little pests are now running around the village on fire, spreading their evil blaze amongst your simple housing and, dare I fret, my manor. In fact, I hear that a barn is already nothing more than smoking ash. Oh! How I pray it was not my family's beloved loft." He tossed his head gently upon his fingers to emphasize his grief, a solemnly portrayed moment that was ruined as he winced at Bimblesnaff's appearance. "Agh! You actually hired this... this... abomination!"
"A barn has been burned down?" questioned the lunatic's employer. "And the goblins were on fire... Wait, did you just burn the barn to the ground," he pressed the hidden maniac and added, "along with most of the village?"
"Hey, I dinna burn down anythin'! ... It got blowed up. Besides, ya ne'ah said not ta destroy da town," wittily defended Bogg.
"I thought that matter would just naturally be understood," whined the exasperated man, flailing his arms wildly.
"I undahstand nothin'!" The Ghobling's claim was surprising accurate in many regards.
"It exploded?" interrupted the panicked the pansy man, still caught on what the fiend had said earlier. "Oh, dear, do you know which one it was?"
"Uh, was yers ta da east or da west?" questioned Bimblesnaff.
"The east," answered Albert, fanning himself with a handkerchief.
"Well, dey a'e both gone," he simply answered before downing another swallow of mead, causing the fragile man to faint. The outcome was rather convenient as Bogg could not remember which way was east or west, let alone remember what east and west even were.
"But... if the barn is destroyed," realized the tavern owner, "what happened to that other guy I hired? ..." Meanwhile, on the moon, the hired sword was not present as he was quite dead. "In any case, I think I've had enough of your 'services,' buddy. You can go, please... now."
"Oh, I ain't goin' anywhe'e," snapped the freak, slamming down the emptied pitcher. "I'm not e'en he'e fer payment. Dis was just on m' way. Now, I dinna ha'e anythin' 'gainst dose guys before. Dey we'e just li'l annoyin' bastahds. I dinna mind, but, if it meant wettin' m' throat, yeah, I'd do a few o' 'em in. No problem. Now, tho', now dey ha'e done it. What dey took from ya was just piddle crap, trinkets and garbage. What dey took from me can ne'ah be returned..." Silence fell among the pair. Curious, the barkeep leaned over the counter to see if the grey skin was still there only to have his hideous visage spring up. The man would not have been able to recognize the maniac if he had not know he was speaking with crazed one this whole time. His body was half naked, covered in soot and scratches. Singed bandages and hose were all that remained of the clothing he wore earlier, and a busted set of goggles now appeared on his crown. Jagged splints and cooled embers were embedded in his marred hide. However, this grizzled and haggard appearance was overlooked by his inspector for one more terrifying detail. When last seen, Bogg had both his hands. Now, rather, his right arm stopped before the wrist, ending in a nub caked in burnt and dried blood. Strapped onto this, in a makeshift arrangement, the tip of his former weapon stuck out. The blood on it was fresh. "Dis ain't business no more. Dis is revenge."
"By the gods," the horrified man gasped, "what happened to your arm?"
"M' ahm? M' ahm?" repeated the now raving madman. "Who gi'es a flyin' flanargle 'bout m' stupid ahm! Dose bastahds ruined m' coat! I lo'ed dat thin'!" That jacket was his dignity. He stole it from a high nobleman. At least, that was what he assumed the victim was. Who else would wear a purple vestment and feathered hat while being surrounded by a group of fine ladies? Surely, only the greatest of kings could manage a harem such as that. The man was undeniably of regal status. While the lunatic's dear surcoat was merely burned, easily ignited from being worn so thin over the decades, his hand suffered a more involved end. While poorly choosing to rest near a building that had just contained an explosion, he laid himself out near a standing, sharp edge. When the structure collapsed, a heavy forced knocked the weapon over, pinning it to the earth with his limb in between two. As a twist of good fate, the same incident which cost him his arm also cauterized the wound. That would be the case, at least, assuming one could call any part of such an event lucky.
Only two bits were saved from his shattered possession at the former barn site: the tip of his blade and its enigmatic, chained handle. The weapon was rather hefty, and he lacked the means to support it correctly anymore, so the bulk of it was left behind. By using the now worthless scabbard strapped to his back, the sharpened tip was mounted onto his mangled arm to create a full function from the two destroyed pieces. His other arm, or his only arm as the case would be, wielded the short chain, good for a beating. To test the arsenal out as well as subside his ire, the weakest of the scrambling horde left crawling from the decimated barn were brought to a quick end. Following the staggering trail of the wounded, his path crossed that of the pub, and old habits rose above his new vendetta. With his thirst satisfied and his hatred begging to be, Bimblesnaff leapt from the counter to the rafters, pulling himself up with his one arm, and scurried out to the roof to continue his hunt.
Cleaning House
Bounding out to a nearby roof, the grey skin emerged into the cool, night air to pick up where he left off on his trail of bloodshed. Before where he had slinked, the madman thumped about in mighty bounds. Peering over the edge of the house, his eyes spotted a hobbling goblin, following the beaten path laden with ash that the others made before it. Bogg would make the straggler wish he was faster. Biting down on the handle of his lost armament, the lunatic jumped off from the roof and sailed through the black sky. The tattered wrappings left on his sickly frame wavered in the chilled wind as his body sped towards his target. Stiffly extending his arm, the full one, his grimy claw caught onto the wounded kobold's head. Continuing with the plummet, the maniac cushioned his fall solely on the unsuspecting goblin's skull. The brain case shattered against the hard earth as Bimblesnaff's descent came to a rough landing, cutting himself many times on his own temporary weapon in his tumble, but these were just nicks in comparison to the damage he had already endured. Determined, he limped on with an unsteady gait to the next victim in line. The fool never saw his end coming. With a flail of the broken handle, the loose chain bound around the hunted's neck and tightened as the fiend bit down on the dangling end and pulled. In the prey's last breaths, as the many before him, he only asked for his queen to save him. This clan of goblins seemed to cherish their queen, so the Ghobling knew he would have to make her suffer as well.
Pressing on, the green skins put up less of a fight with each encounter, not that any of them ever did or were ever capable of such. To test their remaining will to live, the handless freak revealed himself before his next mark only to be ignored. The dying imp was in pain and only sought his beloved matriarch, but this suffering was not seen as enough. Driving the bladed nub upward, its point pierced through the jaw and into the skull. The stricken devil fell to the ground convulsing while still quite alive. Now he was in enough pain. For the sake of time and burning desire, Bogg sped up his pace of horrible murder. Charging down the line of potential slayings on sore legs, necks sprayed blood as the lunatic weaved between the eventual corpses and carved them with his jagged edge. The bloody path flowed through the town to the outskirts. As the scarce and distant houses began to fade, they were replaced by the occasional tree until a sparse woodland emerged. Dead, bare trees that stood like thin columns rose among a carpet of dry leaves. Furious footfalls rattled the dropped foliage as they were soon wetted with the noxious fluids of kobolds. As the trail markers trickled off, the destination became clear as the lunatic happened upon a small mound with a familiarly shaped hole in its side. The structure was a goblin abode, and he was about to clean house. Slipping through the tight hole, the Ghobling landed safely on a firm ground. Only a trace of the star's glow shone down the orifice, casting a silver circle where he dropped. The pit was stark black, but he maniac knew better.
"So, ya gonna show yerselves?" he muttered. His shrill words bounced off the empty walls, resounding into the darkness. "Guess yer all a lot of cowahds den, huh? Shoulda known. Too scared ta take on just one guy." His taunting proved too much to be tolerated as a ring of fire encircled the wide room. The flames traveled upward, igniting more rows of flame that stretched up to the revealed dome's top high above. Gilded walls of golden bricks glistened in the blaze's light bearing etchings to their carver's own mythos. The dazzling shine of the marvelous walls only brightened the room more than the troughs of fire, and what the light divulged was an army. Ranks of battalions surrounded the sole intruder, each armed with threatening weaponry and impressive armor. Far behind their ranks rose a throne carried on the shoulders of eight goblins. Perched atop the mighty seat, in a position less than fitting for royalty, reclined a maiden of untold beauty and green skin. A scarlet cape trimmed in tiger's fur draped down from her neck, playfully tossed by her spare hand that was not wielding her emerald scepter. A jewel encrusted tiara rested upon her pale, pink hair that could not mask her stunning face. She was, undoubtedly, the queen.
"Fool," she harshly addressed, "you dare to invade my kingdom and slay my subjects? Have you no idea who I am? Do you know the punishment you have invoked?"
"Brin' it," coldly snapped the lunatic, "bitch." With a huff, the goblin queen cast out an arm and, with it, the first wave of soldiers. With a well placed swing of his bladed arm, the first troop's head was severed. With a spinning chop, the disembodied piece was volleyed into the arms of another unit who was quickly split across the waist. Using the lower half as a boost, Bogg climbed into the air to cleave another of the ill-fated in twine, top to bottom. As the sides parted, the leaking entrails were grabbed in his waiting claw and lassoed around another of the imp's neck and pulled taut. As the life was choked out of him, he was pulled forward and whipped around like a flail, crashing into his comrades. Letting the battered and quite dead weight go, it sailed to the first rung of fire, shattering the gutter that housed the flame and its fuel. Burning fluid gushed from the channel, scalding the regiment stationed below. With layers of ducts to be drained, the stream soon flooded the floors with an inferno. The closing pyre was none of the maniacs concern, nor did the squadron find time to truly notice, kept busy by the frenzied attack. Catching an axe man inside the mouth with his only hand, the fiend pulled down until his thick claw broke through the floor of the strongman's mouth as the reconstructed arm was trust forward hard into a trooper's chest, deflating a lung. Gasping for air, the suffocated one had the pierced soldier thrown on top of him. Letting out a maddening cry, Bimblesnaff charged into the thick of the legion to reach the queen. The forces converged on his position, burying him in their numbers. Summoning primal forces, they were hurled off. They tried to reclaim their target, but he expected them this time. Shifting weight to a single toe, the madman spun like a cyclone, shredding all that tried to tackle him. The warriors were deflected, thrown back into the growing tide of molten gold that was swallowing the floor and the bodies that littered it. Approaching the queen, whose throne now rested on the ground, his steps vanished as he left them. Thick, dark blood dripped from his battered, gray form as he heaved heavy breathes, staring down at the beloved matriarch.
"You... you... you wretch!" she accused. "You horror! You monster! You abomination! You... you..." Her words faltered as she became lost in emotion. "You hunk! I've never seen a real man before." Sliding over in her throne, she held out her scepter's handle to the deserving fighter. Bogg took it and his earn seat on the soft, plush, velvet cushion by the lovely, green vixen's side, who was nearly twice his size.
"Now, gi'e me some sugah, baby."
This display was impressive. It would have been more impressive if that was what actually happened. No, the hole was just a dank, narrow pit. There were no palace walls, no legions of guards, and certainly no stunningly attractive she-goblin who fell for the maniac. The notion of a beautiful goblin alone deserves mention as an outlandish claim. However, the truth would not be how Bimblesnaff repeated the series of events when regaling his ventures at taverns. His spectacular array would be just as cunning as he desired it to be. It did not matter which version of the tale he told, however, truth or fiction, as no one knew who he was and just tried to ignore his demented ramblings. He might as well be going on about unicorns consuming cantaloupes, which, strangely enough, he would begin spinning once the tales of this adventure came to a close.
Hail to the Queen
Squeezed tight between the slimy walls of the tunnel, Bimblesnaff trekked down the dark corridor. Guiding himself through the black with his hands, the tasked proved very difficult with only one. The broken tip sawed through the leather band it was affixed with, having started cutting the strap earlier when it was forced into jugulars, and fell off some where down the way without Bogg realizing it when it was jabbed into the wall while feeling the space out. He would not be too concerned with the loss, however, as it served its purpose. The way split in two some distance in. Down one route, there pulsated the ill stench of pure nausea while the second way did not smell of goblins but still rather rancid. Popping his head into the latter, a small room was stacked with dead bodies of human men. Each one was bound and tethered to stake and seemed to have several bites out of their flesh. It was not a grave but a pantry. Even the lunatic in his vile revelries was appalled by the sight. People stopped tasting good after seeing ten or more winters, and, even then, only maidens were satisfying to the pallet. Parting from the room of horrors, the maniac followed the scent of green skins. It was getting strong, and that made sense as there was one right under his nose.
"Ow," yelped the previously mentioned imp as the unarmed fiend stepped over him, driving his talons into its back. Wounded and tired, the struggling kobold had worked its way back home only to succumb to its damage and collapse in some dark pit, slowly dying alone and in a pool of its own fluids. Bimblesnaff could only wish his end, when it came, was as spectacular. That one lost soul was not all that had made it back as a dying breath called to defend the queen. Two weakened goblins, only mildly scorched from the blast, limped forward. The first's skull was smashed into the tunnel by a heavy fist, wrapped tight in the chains of the separated handle. With a spinning kick, the bleeding face was pressed further into the gritty dirt and scraped down as the foot slid to the floor, refusing to relinquish its hold. Marching forward with the captive still held, crushing his face further with each step, the metal laced punch was ducked by its second target who had arched his body backwards beneath it. His hands and legs sprung up, grabbing the limb. This one surprisingly still had some fight left in him. Shifting the weight back, he tried to roll through and catapult the maniac over himself, but the unaccounted passenger, still clutched tight, clashed into the ceiling as they were spun over. Landing back on his feet, the lunatic beat his arm against the wall to rid it of the clinging pest, an act he had never been on the delivering end of before. A few times during this effort, he tried to pry the grabby goblin off with his other hand. These attempts were followed by screams of pain when the sensitive stump touched anything. The ground was not firm enough to coax off the Ghobling's assailant, so the other imp was used as a surface instead.
Leaving the pair in a battered pile, the fiend stomped off down the rest of the tunnel in heavy breaths. Most all of them were dead or dying by now, but he had yet to find the one that they worshipped so dearly. It was her fault that this mess even began and that he suffered his loss. Waving a handless arm over his body, he pained at the lack of feeling it, his beloved coat. The burning hatred deep within him blazed as his uneven gait righted. Up ahead, he saw a light, and the air was wafted with the scent of a woman. Dropping to all threes, he galloped onward. As though shot from arches, the freak exploded into the room with his fist raised, ready to take down what was in there. Nothing attacked him as there did not seem to be anyone there at the time. The chamber was littered with mountains of gathered goods, and the heaps seemed to be organized in some fashion. One in the corner seemed to be food and barrels of wine. Another was glistening jewelry and other refinements. Largely, there was utter garbage. Anything from wagon wheels to half burned candles was scattered everywhere, sifted through and discarded. Another odd feel from the space was it seemed to be set up like a living quarters. It contained tables, chairs, dishes with half a meal left on it, and a bed with someone sleeping in it. After looking around at a few more of the trinkets, this final observation struck Bimblesnaff.
"Gah!" he shrieked, which awoke the slumbering occupant who returned an ear-piercing cry, which only prompted an even shriller screech from the gray one. He had been focused on hounding down the queen with such ferocity that he completely overlooked the fact that the woman he smelled was a human. After a few minutes, each of them grew tired from the screaming and had to stop to catch their breaths. "What a'e ya doin' he'e?" questioned the fiend between gasps.
"What are you?" the woman asked, pressed tight against the wall.
"I asked fihst," childishly claimed Bogg.
"I..." She was about to respond, but then she realized that she was having a petty argument with some monster she could not even identify. "I was brought down here by the goblins." With a nod, she begged that her query get answered. He thought for a moment, a rare event indeed.
"I'm da extahminatah," he hissed. "I'm killin' all da goblins." Her face still looked overwhelmed by fright and slowly moved to panic. "Oh, good..." she stiffly spoke with uneven eyebrows. "I'm saved. ... Yay... Now I can go back home... to my fiancé." Her tone was very flat for someone who was just rescued.
"Sa'ed?" he snapped. "Sa'ed from what? I see ya in a nice den full o' food, drink, gold, an' sheets." The fact that they were silk was not what made them a luxury to him. "Seems rathah fancy like ta me." It was a nice set up to him and only him. Anyone else would have seen it as a terrible prison, but now she fretted that the fool was seeing through her lies. "Mattah o' fact, why wasn't ya chained in da back room wit' da othah people fer a snack? Ya look ta be a tastiah morsel den dose lot we'e." The freak smelled a liar, but what he was better trained to smell was delicious flesh. "Yer Miss Polly, ain't ya? Dat li'l twahp's chick, huh?" he bitterly scolded. "Seems I'd go wit' dese guys o'ah him any day, too. Am I right... Queen?"
"So," the daughter of Ester stated, her sweet, innocent expression of fear melting away to cold anger, "you've figured it out, huh?"
"Oh, yeah," boasted the gray one. "I know it all now." Polly had been forced into a marriage with the richest man in the town, the royal prick Albert who owned most all of the local businesses. She despised the man, but her family saw it as their chance to get wealthy. Appalled and frightened, young Polly ran away from home only to run into a band of goblins. Rather than be terrorized by them, the clan fell madly in love with her, all of them, and worshipped her as a goddess. The same problem she had tried to escape at home had followed her during her escape, but these idolizers were subservient. It was this difference that she found more appealing. Rather than having to do anything in her scheduled marriage, she could just sit on her throne and be pampered and adored by the wretched green skins. Abuse of her followers quickly followed as she proclaimed herself their queen and demanded more from her subjects. She not only wanted served, but she wanted her hated hometown to suffer as well. Under her orders, the devoted imps risked life and limb to take everything from the village and, thus, her future husband. Once he had nothing, she could easily return to her previous life without worrying of being trapped in a loveless wedlock. Her family would cancel the plans if they could not get rich from the arrangement. In time, though, she grew accustomed to her power. When people came looking for her, she was faced with a difficult decision: go back to her simple life or preserve her lofty position. With solid resolve, she ordered each of heroes slain, the same people she had once called friends.
There was no turning back for her at that point, but now her followers were all gone. The only person to know her secret taunted her with it. She had to save her own skin as there was no one left to save it for her. She was found out, or, at least, she thought she was. Bogg had no clue what was going on, in truth. His idea involved a far out scheme of the girl assassinating the real queen of the goblins and taking her place without them noticing. They are a stupid race, a fact Bimblesnaff was more familiar with than he even knew he was aware of. After seamlessly usurping the throne, she desired to lay ruin to her own kingdom to give birth to her own empire and sent her subjects off to their own demise at the hands of the unbelievably talented maniac. His invisionment laid out the facts as he saw them.
"I have an offer for you," the girl tempted with a sly smile, turning on the same charms she used on the goblins. "If you just keep this whole thing between you and me, I'll let you have anything in this room that you want." The lunatic did not know what she meant by that, but a free treasure was a free treasure.
"Anythin', huh?" mused the inhuman one. Smugly trotting about the chambers, he fiddled with some items lying about. Kicking around a few worthless tools, he swiped a loaf of bread to munch on while he browsed. Several things looked pleasing to his greedy eyes. The less than spectacular jewelry lining a table did catch his attention, but he wanted to take something from her that would hurt as much as the loss he suffered. Swallowing a mouthful of bread, he made his desire known. "Dat's a nice rin' ya got de'e," he wickedly growled. Without the slightest concern, she held out her hand to offer it as payment.
Bimblesnaff emerged from the hole, chomping away on contents from the chamber. His departure was met with a torch carrying mob of villagers, which was not the first time he had encountered such a group. Leading the pack was the very sissy fiancé of Ms. Polly himself.
"What's da lot o' ya doin' out he'e?" sharply asked the Ghobling with a muffled mouth, shielding his eyes from the brilliant blazes.
"We followed the trail you left us," Albert explained, tipping his head to one of the many carcasses that marked the way there. "We wanted to recover our stolen goods from those terrible goblins' lair. Are they... all gone?"
"Gone? No," the gray skin replied, shifting the mass to one cheek, "but dey a'e all dead. Yer town is safe."
"Our town? What town?" attacked one of the villagers. "Because of you, half of it is burned to the ground! We came all the way out here to take back these defiled goods so we would at least have something." She would have gone on, but their leader cut her off.
"Please, tell us... did you find anyone in that hell hole," he asked with pain filled eyes, "alive?" The lunatic spat out the object he had been chewing on.
"More dead dan li'in', I'm 'fraid," he told. "Dun worry. 'Twas yer precious li'l Polly dat wasn't rottin', but I ain't too sure how happy ya'll will be wit' hah." He hacked up another disgusting wad from his mouth and then began to walk away. "She had a pretty foul role in dis whole mattah." The role he was referring to was entirely fictitious, and, by now, he had incorporated a conspiracy of Dwarvern governments into the mess. "Ya ain't gonna like it one bit."
"Well, I do not care what my betrothed did," declared her fiancé above the concerned murmurs building in the crowd. "I will love her with an undying passion no matter what treachery she allegedly has done. I shall still take her hand in marriage regardless!" The maniac cackled to himself fiercely.
"Yeah, I bet she'll be glad ta heah dat." The maddening laughter continued as he faded under the veil of night. He left them without explanation partially to leave them in a fog of mystery and partially since, with all his blood loss, he was not thinking straight. Confused more than alarmed by the demented one's banter, the future groom called everyone to the hole to begin reclaiming their possessions. As they moved in around the den's entrance, a gleam on the ground caught his eye. Moving his torch closer, the glittering gold was revealed as a ring he was quite familiar with. It was the same one he gave to his bride to be. He was mortified but not because it was away from her and covered in slime. The ring was, in fact, still with her on her corroded, withered, severed hand. A demonic grin grew across the Ghobling's face as the horrified screams could faintly be heard resounding through the blackened woods followed by a thud as Albert fainted from the shock.
"I don't really get this story," a voice cut in. Bimblesnaff's head peaked over the table top to the dark man who addressed him. "A lot of it just doesn't make much sense, laddie."
"What do ya mean?" begged the Ghobling to know before letting out a rancid belch. "'Tis as flawless as I am. What could be wrong it?"
"Well, for starters," began the pirate who patiently sat through the whole tale, "all of it." The seafarer scratched his head. "And what was that part about Dwarves using the sun to steal your corn?"
"Dey only want ya ta think dat's a load o' non-sense," whispered the delusional freak. The buccaneer shook his head in objection, not that the maniac cared. He was too pained by the memories invoked in the tale of his terrible loss. Sniffing, he whined, "I miss m' coat so much..."
"Arr..." The human rolled back his eyes to Bogg's misplaced concern. The unearthed thoughts had still choked up the otherwise heartless freak. Wiping away a single tear, he, again, forgot that he was less a hand and poked himself in the eye with his bandaged nub.
"Dammit!"
