"Who am I?" A sound like a chuckle blared from his curled lips. "I am Bimblesnaff Bogg, the Lunatic. I am a scourge o' da Ghoblin' race, or, as yer less vulgar tongue would know it, a 'goblin'. M' tribe lives deep wit'in da eahth, out o' da reach o' dis dreaded ball o' flame, undah da tyrannical rule o' da Grand Kin' Ghob." He spat at the name of the most loathed figure, his spittle slowly burning a hole in the planked floor. "Ya prolly could not tell by m' guise, but I'm pushin' 121 years." This number was an approximation given his inability to count. "Yep, only 121. Dun seem like it, huh? Most goblins wish dey had dis build." He cockily displayed his own demented frame which barely had any putrid green flesh on it. Knobby bones and twisted muscles could be seen sticking out from under his shaggy garb.
He sat, silent for a moment, his head down, staring through the thin strains of his dingy, orange hair into a dirty mug of mead with his beady, purple eyes. His long, pointy ears twitched from the surrounding commotion as he tried to drown out the noise. The large tankard seemed lost, cradled between his oversized, grimy hands as his equally large, equally disgusting feet dangled from above the paneled flooring. He rapped its glass side with his three digits nervously, breaking occasionally just to break the tedium. This ranged from scratching his long, beak-like nose or scraggly haired chin to picking days old meat from out his mangled, yellow teeth. He racked his brain for something to say, but his thoughts were neither the easiest thing to sort through nor to find. Within moments, he began to wonder about how much longer the bar would be servicing his thirst and, more importantly, how he intended to pay for the purchased spirit with empty pockets, or should it be said, how he intended not to pay. As his mind bounced from ducking out under another patron's cloak and following them out to robbing an orphanage not to acquire payment but a meal, and rating the local bar wenches, somewhere between tipping cows and raiding an orchard for fermented fruit, it refocused. Glancing over from beneath the brim of his wide hat, an opportunity occurred to him.
"Noticin' m' weapon, is ya? Ya got an eye fer good work," he commented. "Dat is a Ghoblin' Hook Blade, forged deep wit'in da dank bowels o' Gaia by yers truly." Pulling the weapon from its mock-sheath, he held it aloft so the light could be caught in its dull sheen. Truthfully, it was intended to be a regular sword, but his inexperience at smithing has lead the sword to form a sharp bend midway from shaft to point, just another reason he did not take up the call of the blacksmith. A broken chain swayed from the end of the handle. He knew he had put it there for some purpose, but such had slipped from his mind at the moment, just as it did when he set the feature into the arment. "Dey are an awkward wield to most, but m' kin find dem suited to our erratic battle tactics." This meant he did not know what he was doing in battle, so neither did his opponent. The tactic seemed to work. It did not grant him victories, but it did keep him alive. "Dat's da same reason I go wit'out a metal shell. Feh! Armor is fer dose who are expectin' ta get hit. Dat cripples one's edge in battle from the staht. Besides, what does a few iron sheets ha'e fer fashion? No class, an' one has ta look good." He spoke proudly of his tattered, empirical jacket as he ran his claws down its length. Purple is a hard dye to come by, and the original owner did not make it easy for him to pilfer it. So many years had passed with it draped upon his shoulders that more than stitches were required to keep it together. Dirty bandages were wrapped tight around his waist and arms, keeping the thin threads from splitting any more. So much pride was held for this token of victory that Bogg saved the bits as they fell from the coat and pieced them together to make his wide brimmed cap. Meant for someone twice his height, its tail still dragged on the ground, alongside his own. This added length had provided years of protection to his dingy, brown hose, which were in his possession before the jacket. It was not uncommon for him to forget they were even there, an excuse he commonly uses for why they have not been washed in over a century. Peering about his proximity once more, he reached within the fold of his coat to retrieve a bulbous object, a goat bladder aleskin. Goblins travel light, and, in this, was the only thing they considered an essential.He had a special brew, a recipe outlawed in most realms, dubbed "liquid death." The non-goblinoids just did not appreciate its unique, burning taste or the acute pain it afflicted to all of your senses. Slyly, he poured some into his mug to give it a much needed kick. Mortal mead was much too tame for his raging tongue. Normally, he would be brash of his possession of such, but, when it came to Goblin Draught, you did not risk any chances in losing it, especially when running low. With just a sip of the diluted serum, he felt all that remained of his inhibition slip away.
"So, anywise, baby," he belched out, "I was thinkin' dat maybe a fiend like me an' doll like ya could-"
"Excuse me, sir," a voice interrupted him. Bimblesnaff growled, cranking his neck to the speaker, staring at him harshly. "Why are you speaking to a pile of dishes?"
"... what?" Turning his head to the woman he thought he had been working all night, squinting revealed the man's observation to be true. "Ah, strike it all. Da gods must be jokin' me!" Burying his face in one hand, his other claw pushed aside his tankard, having realized that, for once, he had too much to drink. Slowly, he peeked open his eye at the sound of approaching footfalls to see a fine specimen chose the stool next to him. "Well, hello de'e, lovely," he started, already sliding his mug back into his reach. "Da name's Bimblesnaff Bogg..."
Race
A Ghobling is the truest form of a goblin, the prime of the species. All other breeds descended from this walk. They live deep in the earth, their native element, under the rule of the terrible King Ghob. While they are exactly like their more familiar brethren, they are further personifications. They are more vile, more sick, more twisted, more disgusting, more ... gobliny.
Appearance
Hideous. Slimy, green skin; large, pointed ears; long, hooked nose; beady eyes; dingy, long, thin hair; crooked, yellow, pointed teeth; thin, curled lips; narrow, jutting chin; scrawny, sickly frame; twisted, bony limbs that each end with a triad of oversized, grimy, thick digits; stout, sweeping tail.
Personality
Grating- No matter who it is, no matter how patient, no matter how tolerant, Bimblesnaff will get under one's skin more than his foul musk. Like a thorn in one's side, it's just what he does. He is sadistic and merely enjoys clashing with people, assuming he gets the opportunity to do it on purpose. It is a sport to him, and he is use to winning. Lying, cheating, deceitful, conniving, brash, arrogant; he's bound to have something to drive a person crazy.
Sharp Wit, Dull Sense- Throughout the years, he has acquired quite a store of knowledge. He is fast thinking and knows his facts, but he generally cannot keep anything straight or reasoned. He could solve an ancient puzzle in a heart beat, but this would be by mistaking the ancient glyphs for some type of toy.
Lady Killer- Bimblesnaff's a devil with the women, at least that's how he sees it. He'll acknowledge any skirt within his vision (or, more to his preference, reach) but will not make the slightest effort to pursue any of them, for, as he sees it, they come to him.
Hateful- Bogg despises just about everything that lives and breathes and somethings that do not. Things he holds strong resentment towards are elves and cat people. It is hard for this blanket apathy to be lifted, unless fit into the prior category.
Thirst- The fiend is partial to mead and ale of all types, as long as it'll make him forget about his pain with an even greater one.
Big Mouth- His words speak louder than his actions. He's more show and less results. While he may talk big, he'll avoid any situation that might actually require him to do something if he can do so easily.
Gutter Mouth- The maniac's words are a nightmare to try and understand. Aside from general slang, such as dropping the "g" in "-ing", he also cuts out most "r" sounds and plenty of "v"s. His speech may seem to contain more apostrophes than actual letters.
Lunatic- He is quite literally insane, pure and simple. One would assume that he is forever locked in a series of deranged banter, and one would be accurate in that assumption. But there is a method to his madness: it is all carefully timed and aligned to incite even more madness.
Weapons
Ghobling Hook Blade, a bent sword. The hook blade offers no symmetry between its sides, producing a strange method of handling. Its steel blade is tarnished with grime and blood over the ages, and its edge is jagged, an optimal feature for inflicting pain. The hook blade is wielded in a fashion that is unschooled and unpredictable, making defending an attack rather complicated. The bearer holds it over their shoulder or rests it on the ground before unleashing a fury of stinging strikes.
Armor
Tattered Rags. Once empirical garb, it is now just swabs of barely stitched scraps bound together by bandages. Tarnished, marred, and unwashed for ages, their best defense is keeping the opponent from approaching all together.
Items
Goat Bladder Aleskin - A fluid containing bag of roughly two liters capacity filled with a Ghobling Draught that offers no curative properties and, if anything, should be regarded as dangerous.
Bandages, not sterile - Loose bands of fabric that are used to support failing wardrobe. They cannot be used to properly dress a wound.
Cloths, one set - jacket, pants, and hat, all tattered; no shoes
Goblins travel light. No fire or bedding is needed for them to set camp. They sleep in the icy mud of the underground. Their food does not need cooked, either, due to their tendency to devour whatever it is they find: alive, dead, or long since dead.
Natural Abilities
Large Features- The prominent ears and nose of his breed of goblins gives them better-than-average auditory and olfactory senses.
Manic Laugh- The voice of a goblin is harsh enough on the ears, but tales go that their laughter spoils milk and knocks fruit from trees rotted. When they are amused, they unleash an ultra-high pitched cackle that shatters the concentration anyone who hears it with a ringing headache, foe or friend.
Sinister Smile- A goblin's grin is told to curdle one's blood. To behold such a sight generally shivers the spine of lesser men.
Acrid Spit- His spittle is mildly acidic and will slowly corrode most organic materials given enough time.
Iron Gut- The strong acids of a Ghobling's stomach allow them to devour next to anything, cooked or raw, animal or plant, or even indeterminate. While its a handy trait to prevent stomach aches from such things as rotten food, it does nothing to prevent the affects of deadly toxins.
Stupid Luck- If ignorance is bliss, then Bimblesnaff is in heaven. Hard to define as anything, his stupidity seems to allow him to come out on top with a lot of situations that would kill most. From missing a secretive trap by being distracted by a shiny coin to winning a battle by ducking to tighten a strap, things just seem to fall in place for the most outrageous reasons.
Learned Skills
Brewing- What he calls "brewing", others refer to as "poison making". Either is fine to Bogg. Only if someone was stupid enough and capable of drinking a full flagon would they die of it.
Earth Shaper- Having been raised in a subterranean environment, tunneling, digging, and making holes come easy to the lunatic, and having giant claws does not hurt the matter, either.
History
Bimblesnaff Bogg is a Ghobling, a true Goblin from the domain of the Grand King Ghob, ruler of the underearth. He is the twenty-third in a spawning of forty-six, making him a middle child. His frame was cast from a particularly putrid cesspool and his spirit fueled by hopeless abandon, as opposed to the metaphorical clay body and shining soul granted to most of the races. He was entrusted to the care of some simple fungus reapers, like most of the peasants under the fist of the gluttonous Ghob, to feed their king's vast appetite. Trying his hand at the many tasks offered in the Kingdom of Ghob, he was well suited for none, eventually taking to slacking off and mischief. Even for a goblin, Bimblesnaff was a particular nuisance, which eventually led to his unofficial banishment from the city below at the young age of 42. He had no reason to stay, and the citizens could not think of any either. He took with him a shoddy piece of metal work that he claimed to all outsiders, who knew no better, was a unique style of weaponry and an aleskin for his toxic brew.
He drifted around from various thief's dens. He was never accepted as a member in any of them, but he did crash there as they were the only places that would accept his presence. Between all of the plunder, raids, sabotage, poisoning, back-stabbing, cheating, lying, doublecrossing, infiltration, and spying, the dens quickly grew to hate Bimblesnaff. Before they could reach this realization, however, Bogg would have already sold out the guild to a rival and repeat the process. It did not take long before he had soaked up all thieves had to teach him, which was his way of explaining being black listed by every den of ruffians across the land. For the next few score years, he merely traveled the open trail, taking the most absurd objects just out of fancy, including his beloved, royal colored jacket, acquired from a nobleman in the kingdom of Idos. His lust for bizarre oddities had landed him in jail in more than one occasion, but the facilities were never equipped for someone of his size or burrowing ability. Bored with "doin' stuff," as he put it, he took several years off on a dangerous bender that would kill most. After waking from the alcoholic daze some many years later, the entire span of time was unaccounted for, a fact that did not concern him in the slightest. Careless as ever, he picked up where he left off: travelling the open road and causing general havoc all around. Taking up his hook blade at the young age of six score, he sought the life of a vagabond once again and the mayhem that came with it.
