"Gringel! You don't do that!" Yelled the grey-skinned goblin Dartop, clothed in what was little more than stitched-together brown rags, in his unpleasant, high pitched voice.
"Gringel need to do! Gringel need Dartop to help!" The voice that yelled back was just as unpleasant, but slightly lower pitched, both voices sounding more like growling than speaking. Dartop stood in the middle of a forest, yelling into a hole about his size in a hollow oak tree.
"Gringel is stupid idiot-head!" A yellow foot shot out from the tree, hitting Dartop like a rock. The goblin fell over, screeching angrily. "Dartop going to kill you!" He shot back up and reached into the hole, his disgusting, dirt-covered hand wrapping around Gringel's ankle.
"No! No! Gringel get honey! Gringel have hive!" Dartop refused to listen, yanking on his leg and causing him to fall, and with him came a beehive. The hive broke upon impact and both of the goblins started to scream as the angered insects began an attack.
Martyla, a greyish-green goblin dressed in garb similar to that of Dartop and Gringel, stood at the edge of the village, an expression of fury spread across her face. The sun had just set, and a huge bonfire had been started in the middle of the chaotic array of tents and poorly-made cabins that were used as homes. She heard the bellowing of her sons and her rage only grew stronger.
"Stupid sons, they not listen. Dark now, they die soon." She grumbled to herself, not saddened in the slightest. Just as she began to turn away, she heard a rustling, and when she looked back, there were the two she had been waiting for. "Dartop! Gringel! Idiot-heads, you home too late! Manticores out at night!" The woman proceeded to smack both of the goblins who stood before her, who were already in considerable pain after their encounter with the bees. Both of them were shorter than her, making them about the size of a fully-grown pony, while she herself was as tall as a horse. "Go to fire. Chieftain Wakja need to speak to all." She said, pointing behind her.
"Where you go?" Gengel asked his mother as she turned to walk back to their tent. They were one of the less important goblins, and so they did not get to live in a cabin. Wakja turned around and smacked him again, angry that her child had spoken after being chastised.
"Martyla get spears, Chieftain Wakja say to bring weapons." She hissed, and shoved the duo off in the direction of the fire.
Goblins weren't known for doing many things well, aside from a few tribes who had accumulated massive treasure hordes by slaying many a dragon. They made up for that with what they were famous for, which were exactly three things: mining, killing things, and making fires. It is said that even a dying tribe like Bleachedskull could make fires that could rival the sun itself in sheer intensity. This fire wasn't quite that large, but was impressive. The flames went so high that they licked the heavens themselves. Or so the goblins would say. It was still quite the blaze, and it was always a mystery to the other races how they were able to move such massive logs.
Dozens of hairless, hunched figures danced in the fire's glow, their skins ranging from grey to green to yellow, all of them naked for the gathering. Goblins were a strange breed indeed. In a few rare cases, there were teal goblins, but they were usually murdered by their mothers for being abominations.
There was a line of five chairs, two on each side of a grand (at least by goblin standards) wooden throne, which was little more than an unnecessarily tall chair adorned with bones and furs. The throne was so tall that it actually had a short ladder, since it was twice the height of the chieftain. On the left of the chieftain, there sat the shaman, who was covered from head to toe in animal skins, only his eyes and hands, which gripped a glowing blue staff carved from oak and adorned with gold trimmings. To the left of the shaman was the shaman's apprentice, who wore only a hide robe and had a necklace of dried eyes, and his skin was a bright lime green. To the right of the chieftain sat the chieftain's bodyguard, his skin grey, but nobody that hadn't seen him before he was the bodyguard could know that, as red war paint covered his entire body. He was the most muscular goblin in the tribe, and was wrapped in a robe made from a single bear pelt, the head of the bear fashioned into a hood. Both of his ears were cut off entirely when he took the position to forever mark his honor. And, to the right of him was the chieftain's sole adviser, who wore a brown rag robe and a cloak of leather.
The chieftain himself wore armor made entirely of studded wolf hide, and was wrapped in a cloak of wolf pelts. On his head he wore a crown of iron with several gems embedded in the top, which was fused into the skull of a cow, which he wore like a mask. It was rather crude, but the goblins were famed for their mining, not their forging. A ceremonial axe with a handle of bear bone and a head of steel was in his lap. Seeing that everyone that hadn't died today was present, he raised the weapon, a signal that told everyone to silence themselves. Each one was carrying a weapon, primarily axes of iron and steel. A few carried spiked maces, and fewer still had throwing spears. Only one had a shield. The gathering went quiet, and chieftain Wakja spoke up. "Tonight bad night." He began, his voice deep and hearty, and sounded like more of a gurgle than the growling of other goblins. "We long have had agreement with changelings, but bad tragedy has occurred. Queen Haze got sick and now is dead. But news get worse. New queen, Queen Chrysalis, she bad. She hate goblins. She no longer let goblins stay in forest, she going to try to kill us if we stay. But this our home." His voice grows softer, and is almost sorrowful. "Wakja born here. Doudigat born here." As he says it, his long, bony finger is pointed at the shaman, who nods. "You born here." He begins to point randomly into a crowd. "And you. And you. And you." For a few seconds, he is completely silent. "And we not let new queen take our home!" He slams his fist into his left armrest and begins to raise his voice, driven by his anger. At this point he actually jumps to his feet, standing in the chair. "We fight! We stand our ground! We not going to take order from bully! Our army kill all of changelings! We burn their home! We crush dirty bug eggs! We bath in blood and glory, we make sure no bugs survive!" He raises the axe, pointing it into the air, towards the flickering flames of the massive inferno, his voice turning into a yell. "We fight to last breath, and we win! We not take this from bug! We make ancestors proud!" The goblins below him raise their weapons and shout, the entire crowd of 67 men, women, and children, hissing and growling, the goblin equivalent of cheering. "We not leave single one standing! Tomorrow, we end bugs!" Goblins were quite stupid, but that made them easy to rally. They would all lay down their lives for causes they have never heard of, as long as someone gets them excited. So, even against these impossible odds, the goblins were a hundred percent sure they would win.
Shaman Doudigat was hard at work creating potions that would enhance the soldiers' resistance to pain, since goblins, while excellent at striking and stabbing, are pitiful when it came to dodging and blocking, and for most goblins, a shield would just get in the way and do more harm than good. So, a goblin needed to be able to take plenty of hits, especially since it would be 72 versus hundreds. It was a simple recipe, and he was lucky to have his apprentice, so the job was relatively easy. Just really, really boring. Even for the shaman, the most patient in the tribe. Goblins did have quite limited attention spans. But, everyone had to do their part in preparation for the fight, and so he kept at it.
The mines were filled with the sound of pick against stone, the ting of metal chipping away at rock. Jaktirep the yellow goblin was happy to be back in the mines for one last time. It was true that once in a blue moon a more intelligent goblin would be born, and Jaktirep was one of them, though his intelligence was limited to knowing that he would die in the fight, and not thinking of leaving. He was practically born in the mines, and that was the only place he felt at home. It is true he would've made a better shaman or adviser, but none of that mattered now, did it? Nothing mattered, except how hard they hit the changelings before they died. Before their entire race finally kicked the bucket.
Dartop and Gringel were among the several goblin youths chosen to sharpen the weapons. There was nothing indicating that the two had been stung by bees earlier, thanks to the natural toughness of goblin skin. "When battle done, Dartop beat Gringel up." He snarled at his brother.
"If anyone beat anyone up, it be Gringel beating Dartop." Gringel retorted. "Actually, you too much of an idiot-head to fight good, you probably die in battle." The axe and sharpening stone that were in Gringel's hands flew into the air as he was knocked back by the grey fist of Dartop.
"Gringel call Dartop idiot-head one more time and Dartop kill Gringel!" He yelled, disrupting the others that were working or fighting with one another.
"Dartop quiet or Macta kill." The largest and most muscular in the group threatened, which shut him up, and he went back to sharpening, grumbling swears.
The entirety of the goblin village was abuzz with activity, the shaman making potions, the three blacksmiths hammering away at what would soon be new armors and weapons, chieftain Wakja was plotting out what limited level of strategy a goblin could with his advisor, Yulburv. A small percent of the citizens were sparring with each other, with only one casualty. Another percent was deep in the mines, gathering stone to be used as spearheads, while yet another percent was using these materials, along with sticks and vines for throwing spears. There were some that beat the drums of war, some that indulged in mead, and some that sharpened the weapons. And Chrysalis was loving it.
All these ugly bipeds, scuttling about, playing army. They really were quite stupid. The fact that they thought they could beat the changelings, her changelings, was proof enough, but the way they prepared to do it? It was far beyond idiotic, and the only way she could describe it was hilarious. She had been watching them from a tree branch ever since her spies reported Wakja was making a speech, and her only regret was that she didn't get to hear the whole thing. It was making for quite the comical scene, and it took a lot of will to not burst out in laughter. Perhaps this was what made Queen Haze tolerate their existence. It was a almost shame that, come morning, they would all be dead. Almost.
The morning was just as eventful as the night. Everyone that wasn't a baby would be mobilized, including a few pregnant women. The infants and toddlers back at the village had all been penned up and were restricted to a small area in one of the cabins. Goblins were excitedly beating on each other as the shaman's apprentice began to hand out the painkilling potions. War paint adorned all of them, and everyone, save for the chieftain's bodyguard, wore armor. What Wakja called the 'march' was little more than a chaotic horde. Some were excitedly bouncing, waving their weapons in the air, others beating their chestplates and yelling at the sky. One thing was for sure, they were all excited.
Dartop and Gringel were certainly happy, both of them covered in red paint, so excited for the battle that they didn't even bother with any pattern. Their armor was a bit loose, and their axes a tad heavy, but nothing they could handle. They were goblins, strong, proud. They had no idea where their mother was, not did they care, so they were having a blast. Their battle cries joined those of their fellow soldiers in a loud chorus of excited screams. It was on this day they would prove themselves, make their ancestors proud, just like Wakja had said. And even if one of them died, they would go to Sheortstek, the city of gold, and would forever feast with every other noble goblin that had died before them. From Rottenteeth the dragonslayer, who killed two dragons all on his own, to Wortvat the Smart, who created life from metal and rocks, every hero and heroine in the stories of old would be there, and they would meet to trade tales. Most of their own stories would revolve around screwing something up, but it was usually the goblin heroes who were the only ones that did anything right, so it was fine. They would fight, and they would be immortalized in glory.
Martyla was, if anything, enraged. But, for the first time in years, her fury was not aimed at her sons or inanimate objects that she stubbed her toes on. No, it was directed at the changelings. H ow dare they try to drive her from her own home? She would be glad to slay them, be glad to crush their eggs, to burn their home and mount their queen's head on a pike. The thought of victory gave her a warm feeling, and she growled and hollered with the rest of the horde. Unlike most of her fellow goblins, she wanted to fight just to fight. It wasn't about glory. It wasn't about Sheortstek. It was simply for the destruction of every single one of the bugs, to crush their heads under her steel boot. It was for the joy of killing.
Today was the day. Jaktirep wasn't ready to die, but if he deserted the horde, then what would he be? Where would he go? The only option was to die alongside the folk he was born with, the folk that would be the last goblins to ever live. What civilization would take in a goblin, one of the most destructive, dirty, and vulgar creatures to ever live? He had nowhere to turn to, and would do best to die in battle, with honor, rather than starve to death in the woods. A goblin could not live alone, no, they need each other, otherwise they need to operate as a community or they couldn't operate at all. He was born with the horde, he would die with the horde.
Doudigat found it rather hard to dispense the potions, since everyone was slamming into each other, and weaving through the crowd with a purpose was nearly impossible. Of course, if you were one of the grunts bumping chests, you could move from one corner to another in minutes. However, once everything was complete, he joined the goblins who would lead the attack, the same goblins that sat in the chairs during the meetings. Wakja, of course, was leading the leaders, and they collectively led the horde. "Potions all dispensed, we ready to attack." The chieftain nodded and turned to the bodyguard, who began to blow on a horn of bone. The horn of war. The horde stopped their pre-battle celebrations and all looked at the chief, who was holding the ceremonial axe.
"Today, Goblins be great again. We make goblins great again. Our actions in fight be our defining moment, we make choice of whether we honorably go to Sheortstek when die, or we be just as disgraceful as changelings." He raised the axe again, his voice as full of anger as it could be. "Today, we kill Chrysalis, we kill all bugs, we make name of goblins legendary once aga-" In the height of his speech, a green flash blinded the horde, and when they could see again, their leader was a pile of ash. Changelings began to pour out of the woods,swarming around the horde like a vortex. Chrysalis' laugh could be heard by all, and the changelings hit the goblins in a massive wake of shell and horn.
When they were blinded, Dartop and Gringel jumped, Dartop even dropping his axe. They always were a bit jumpy. When they could see again, Wakja was nowhere to be seen. When they began to scan the horde to see if maybe he was with the grunts for some reason, waves of dirty bugs came from the woods, swirling around them in a whirlpool of death. They began to clump up and, in one large wave, hit the horde like a storm. Few goblins actually died, and just about everyone killed at least one bug. Dartop's excitement at slicing one's head clean off was cut short when the next wave came, and that's where the casualties on the goblins' side were, because of the premature celebration of their kills. Dartop was one of the many plucked from the ground and dropped when the wave climbed a hundred feet in the air. In all, fourteen were dropped from the skies, Gringel lucky to have been missed. His luck ran out when the third wave hit and he impaled a changeling that was coming straight for him. The unluckiness in this was that the bug was coming at him so fast that it slammed into him with enough force to break his spine, and he was trampled to death by his fellow goblins.
Jaktirep was stabbed by changeling horns twice in the first wave, and kicked in the head on the second, but he still stood, swinging his mace at every bit of black he saw. There was a hole in his left hand and one in his neck, but goblins were build to continue going until the very end, and the shaman's concoction was working perfectly. He heard a laugh, one that was synonymous with evil doings. Another wave, and his mace was stuck in the exoskeleton of a now-injured changeling. He would have to fight with his hands. The changelings kept hitting them, harder and harder. He did whatever he could to hinder or injure any changeling that passed him, or tried to attack him, be it eye gouging, punching, or whatever else he could do with his hands. He lost track of the waves, there were so many. His comrades fell around him or were lifted up and dropped, and any part of his body not covered in armor was covered with gashes and bruises. He felt something wrap around his arm and was lifted up off the ground. Raising his free arm to attack the bug lifting him up, he was not given the chance before he was dropped to his death.
Doudigat was doing all he could with his magical staff, but it was not enough. His apprentice did not survive the first wave, surprisingly enough. Even with his magical stick spouting flames into the air at the approaching waves, the tribe was quickly losing. Wave after wave, they were being crushed, the last remaining pocket of goblins slowly slaughtered by these bugs. Men, women and children. All killed the same. It's not like he cared, though. Goblins could watch their family die before them and be unfazed. There was another green flash, and he felt an intense heat. And where he once stood, there were only ashes.
That shaman had become quite the nuisance, Chrysalis hated to see her changelings fall to fire. Far too painful a fate for such loyal subjects. So she incinerated him with a beam of energy. The goblins were holding up better than she had expected, much better. But they were still falling. The disgusting little blight on the world being erased, for good. She had already sent a few extra soldiers into the goblin village to kill their babies and burn whatever was left to indicate the dirty goblins were ever here.
Martyla was the last to stand. Not an inch of her body wasn't covered in the purple blood of her comrades and herself. The changelings seemed to be taking their time. Long ago had she run out of throwing spears and switched to her axe. Corpses lay all around her both changeling and goblin, she was one of those who took up the middle of the horde. Green fluid dripped from her axe, her hands were gripping the wooden handle so hard it was giving her splinters. A horn had cut her cheek so deep that her tongue could fit out the hole, and did. Why weren't they attacking her? Were the changelings stupid? Were they afraid? In truth, they were taking their time, waiting to see what emotions they could get out of the last goblin in the world. She smelled fire, and looking back at the source of the scent, she saw the village being completely engulfed in a green conflagration. She didn't care, and instead of mourning, was waiting for the changelings to come down so she could start swinging at them again. It wasn't long before the swarm ended her, every single one of them just lunging at her, tearing her to pieces with their hooves and horns. And the last ember was finally stomped out.
