February 21, 2016
When Tinuviel woke up she wasn’t just in jail. She wasn’t just in a cell in the deepest part of the Welkor’s Light fortress. She was also in the body of a goblin.
“I asked you what we could do to keep from being possessed out of our bodies,” she cried. “Hours ago! But did anyone answer? NO!”
August 31, 2015
To Eyon’s surprise, they came across a small group of goblin arquebusiers amid the tall grasses, apparently reinforcements that had been thrown in willy-nilly. With a cry of “Ane, ctonb!” one of the goblins wearing the White Smile swung at Eyon with an empty and crudely-made gun. Eyon was able to bring his own sword up in time to parry the blow, and with a twist of his wrist he was able to hurl the gun out of the goblin’s hands.
Disarmed, it glared at him. “Go on then, ctonb,” it muttered. “Finish it.”
“No,” said Eyon. “I’ve no quarrel with you, good sir goblin.”
“Young master,” said Gob. “As Gob is sure the elder master already knows, you must follow through and do as this gob asks.”
“What? Why?” Eyon cried. “The rightful king must be merciful. King Eyon IV won’t be called a butcher, or a murderer.”
“Which is more a mercy, young master: to let this gob die in battle, keeping its name or even earning one if a witness survives, or being cast down and nameless in defeat?”
“It is the Code of the Gobs,” the disarmed arquebusier said. His comrades, all of them wounded, nodded, even as some whispered about Eyon’s reference to himself as king. “The gytoh would show no mercy in his sparing.”
“Just ignore them,” Gullywick said. “We need to get out of here, Eyon! We’ve no time to bother with these twigs!”
“Live on and fight another day,” said Eyon. “No one would think less of you or strip you of your name for bad luck.”
“The gobs are stained with the sin of their creation and must therefore earn the right to all which they possess,” replied the disarmed gunner. “Gobs must earn names and pronouns for themselves through their actions. Only gobs who have earned a name will be remembered to their families and to history. The Code of the Gobs.”
“The Code of the Gobs,” the other wounded repeated.
“I won’t do it,” Eyon said. “I won’t strike down an unarmed foe, goblin or not.”
“Then you force me to do what the gytoh refuses out of cowardice,” snarled the goblin gunner. He snatched up the lit match on his shattered arquebus and tucked it into the vest he was wearing. It had looked like armor, but up close it became apparent that it was a simple leather harness with metal tubes in it, each with a charge of powder and shot for the goblin to pour into his gun to make reloading easier. With the burning charge, he limped out a few paces and seized the leg of a passing Ioxan attacker.
A moment later, the charges on his chest detonated. Goblin and foe vanished forever in the explosion together.
“Mabl eyp hame tnbe lopebep, tog,” his fellows, all too wounded to do the same, cried. “Your name will be remembered!”
“What?” Eyon cried. “Why did he do that?”
“There is no time for that, young master,” Gob said. “The young master had his chance to act and he did not. We must get him to safety in the trees.”
June 30, 2015
Goblins’ origins are obscure and surrounded by many myths and legends, but it seems likely that they evolved in a similar arid environment to that of the orcs as they share the chlorophyll-laced skin of the latter, though they lack similar dentition. They also have only four fingers and four toes on each limb, a trait unique to their biology.
Another uniue biological curiosity is that unlike other sapients, goblins do not undergo a growth spurt at puberty. Instead, they continue to grow at a steady rate that slows slightly as they age. Their often impoverished and violent lives mean that the average goblin is shorter than man-sized, though particularly old or renowned goblins are able to reach impressive heights: Aepebo Manbynk (“Treeboy”), the great leader of the Goblin Revolt, was six-foot-five by the time he was captured and executed.
Goblin religion is a unique variant of the Sepulcher of the Creator, the faith embraced by a significant portion of humans. Goblins believe that they were created by the dark lord Muolih, the fallen left hand of the Creator, as his servants. They regard this as an act of blasphemy that forever stained their people, and so with the deaths of Muolih and the Creator in the Greatwar of legend, goblins generally hold themselves bereft of purpose and of any divine influences whatsoever aside from minor spirits. They believe that, due to Muolih’s taint, they are owed nothing and entitled to nothing but what the can get for themselves.
As such, goblin culture is based around achievement; individuals are born without a name and must earn one through their deeds. Unnamed goblins are referred to using a variety of workarounds: the word bac (“you there”), adjectives (“tall,” “sister”), and as often as not, simply “goblin” or “gob.” A goblin who has earned a name is stripped of it upon surviving a defeat but is allowed to keep it if they perish during said defeat, a cultural convention that leads to the often suicidal disregard for self seen in goblin battle formations.
Stereotyped as crude, stupid, and weak, goblins are actually as intelligent and creative as any other sapient. Their low position in societies and their unique culture of self-depreciation belies their general aptitude for construction, chemistry, and mathematics. The arquebus is their most notable arm, and goblin arquebusiers (ottaobynk, “gun boys”) were and are common sights across battlefields.
June 22, 2015
“Eyon,” said Gob. “Listen to me.”
Startled, Eyon fell silent. He had never heard Gob call him anything but “Master” before.
“Answer Gob this, Eyon: why do we, the gobs, have no king?”
“I…I don’t know,” stammered Eyon. “B-because his line died out?”
“We, the gobs, have no king because we believe that a person is defined by their actions. Not by their family. Not by their line. By their actions.”
“So then, to have a king, you would need someone to…act like one?” Eyon said.
“Not how one acts, Eyon. By their actions. Listen to Gob: we believe that anyone who would be out king must take kingly action. They must protect the gobs in time of war, see that they are provided for in time of peace, and act with wisdom and justice and kindness otherwise.”
Eyon rubbed his eyes. “But we’ve had good kings before in Pexate that did that,” he sniffed. “Good kings.”
“Perhaps we have, but we the gobs also hold that anyone who is king that ceases to act as one is no longer king, has that name stripped from them, and is cast down. As Gob has been cast down, from there to fade away or prove themselves anew.”
“You’re saying that the old kings of Pexate, even the best kings of Pexate, wouldn’t lose their name and their throne if they stopped being good, and that’s why they were never kings of the gobs?” Eyon said.
Gob said nothing, instead resting his hand on the hilt of his sword.
“No…no,” Eyon said. “You mean that they never did anything to earn the name in the first place.”
“Yes,” said Gob. “Now you and Gob must ask this question: what are you and Gob going to do to earn our names?”
June 18, 2015
“Why do they call it Ogrestab Hollow?” said Eyon. “It doesn’t sound safe to me.”
“Gob would tell Master, but Gob feels that Master seeing it with his own eyes would be best.”
Ahead of them, the trees parted to reveal a very large ogre, skeletal, in great and rusting armor. He was propped up by a cottage and a lance that he held, one that had skewered the walls all the way through.
“Goodness,” Eyon said softly.
“Gob assures Master that the Hollow is quite safe,” Gob continued. “It is in fact one of the great prides of Gob’s people within these borders.”
“How do you mean?”
“Ogres are gobkin but often no friends of we the gobs. This ogre was particularly old, and thus particularly large and particularly clever, as Gob is sure Master knows that ogres get bigger and cleverer all their lives.”
Eyon did not, in fact, know this. He had never seen an ogre up close. “So he decided to take the village?”
“The ogre sought to take the village and live in the manner of a lord,” said Gob. “As you can see, his was very fine arms and armor. The villagers appealed to a band of gobs to drive him off, as it was during the Anarchy.”
“Looks like they were successful.”
“Master is very astute,” said Gob. “Most of the gobs were easily killed, but the great gob Rnaea Stonethrower climbed that cottage roof and killed the ogre with a single stone to the eye. He was too big to move, so after Rnaea earned her name he was simply left as he was.”
Eyon nodded. “Very brave. What happened to the gobs?”
“Rnaea Stonethrower became matron of her tribe, as I’m sure Master knows is the gob way. The villagers invited the gobs to live among them as equals in return for their service.”
“But I don’t see any people,” Eyeon said, squinting. “Only gobs.”
“As is so often the case, Master, your people eventually forgot their gratitude,” said Gob. “In time, they all moved away to be among their own kind and abandoned the village to the gobs. The gobs keep it now in their own way, and Master’s people rarely venture here, fearing ogres or worse. The great dead ogre, Rnaea’s ogre, is a useful reminder of that.
March 18, 2015
The casket opened silently, revealing the Purposeful Blade in repose. It still bore a mirror-shine, undimmed by patina, and the handle glistened with wrought and spun gold most fine. It bore the crest of House Anselm-Limbert, a falcon rampant with a bone in one claw, at the center of the crosspiece and the orb of House Anselm-Limbert, a representation of a falcon’s eye, at the end of its hilt.
“My birthright,” Eyon said in a low voice. Gullywax had warned him not to touch it, as the sword’s honed blade glowed brightly in the hands of a member of House Anselm-Limbert. But surely here, surely now, no one would notice.
Eyon gripped the hilt tightly, just as Gob had taught him, and hefted the blade. It glinted but remained dark. Confused, Eyon switched it to his right hand. The glow did not seem to care, and the blade was dark and silent.
“I don’t…I don’t understand,” whispered Eyeon. “I am Eyeon Anselm-Limbert, heir to House Anselm-Limbert and rightfully Eyon IV, king of Pexate. The blade should glow for me as it glowed for my forefathers.”
“Yet it will not glow for Master. It will never glow for Master.” Eyon was so started he nearly dropped the cold blade; Gob had entered the chamber without so much as a squeak of his armor.
“Why not?” Eyon whimpered. “You sound like you know. Tell me.”
“Gob did not know until this moment, but Gob suspected.” Gob’s strident tone softened a shade. “Gob did not tell Master because it would hurt Master deeply.”
“Tell me.”
“Is Master sure? Gob does not wish for its-”
“TELL ME!”
“Eyon Anselm-Limbert was but a boy of two when he was vanished,” said Gob. “But even so, chroniclers have recorded that he used to scamper about the castle with a toy sword in his hand. His RIGHT hand.”
“But…but I’ve always been left-handed,” whimpered Eyon. “I can barely open a door with my right hand!”
“Yes, and it was this that made Gob suspect.” The creature was silent a moment. “As difficult as it is for Master to hear, he has asked Gob for the truth, and Gob has delivered it. Master is a pretender to the Anselm-Limbert name, likely raised from his youth to be the tool of ambitious men in seizing Pexate from House Estrem-Lamblin.”
“You mean…” Eyeon sniffed. “You…you mean…?”
“Yes,” said Gob. “Gob means what you think it means. Gullywax, Master’s caretaker, is the most likely perpetrator of this fraud. Gob is sorry, Master. But, for what it is worth, Gob was paid by Master and to Master he remains loyal.”
July 17, 2014
Bear’s wounds were so great that he could no longer walk, no longer use his weapons. The gobs had assumed him to be dead, a piece of worthless fluff no longer worthy of the slightest consideration now that he had ceased to hack and slash at them. Bear had cannily maintained his silence while they were about, but once they had moved on in pursuit of the girl, he cried out for aid.
It was a risk, to be sure. He might attract more gobs, or something worse. But with his body torn up in battle, there was no other way for him to continue to serve the girl as he had since the day she had come home, when they had met on the playroom floor. His service, and the completion of the Unspoken Promise, was greater than any threat from within or without.
“Hello there, little toy bear.” A silhouette loomed over Bear, the size and shape of a small child, maybe half or less of the girl’s age. “Do you need help?”
“That is correct,” said Bear matter-of-factly. “I have lost my charge, she who is as my sister, she who I have sworn to protect and see through from birth to maturity in a promise unspoken to her parents on the day of her birth.”
“That is an awfully big promise for such a small bear,” said the shadow. “I can carry you for a bit, if you like.”
“That would be most kind of you,” said Bear. “I have no way of repaying your kindness, which makes the gesture all the more noble.”
It wasn’t until the shape picked Bear up that he noted something odd. The child-sized shape’s grip was watery and cold, and the presence of shadow and indistinctness of features did not dissipate with distance or the strength of light. “I hope you don’t think it rude of me to ask,” said Bear, after they had walked for some time, “but what might I call you, and what might you be?”
“I am a shade, and you may call me Shade, for you see I do not remember any other name I might have had,” was the reply. “Long ago, something dreadful happened, and I must wander from the Gobwood to Childhood’s End again and again until I can remember what it was.”
“That seems a terrible punishment for something unremembered,” said Bear in a kindly tone.
“It is not so bad,” replied Shade. “And it is much better with a traveling companion. I try to help others when I can, and the Gobwood is always full of those that need my aid.”
Bear saw the wisdom in this, and did his best to engage Shade in pleasant conversation as they walked. In time, the two came to the edge of a great crag overlooking a forested valley with jagged uplifts in the smokey distance. Atop one of them was the ragged shape of a great pleasure wheel.
“The Great Eye,” whispered Bear.
“Childhood’s End,” said Shade sadly. “The end of my journey, and the beginning of yours.”
Inspired by this image.
June 7, 2014
It is well known that the fallen Dark Lord Muolih is and has always been incapable of creation ex nihilo unlike his sire and target of his ire the Creator. As such, he has only ever been able to alter or to copy, never to create. This is best known as the origin of the Gobs, created in imitation of and opposition to the Fairies of the Creator, and hence why said Gobs are known for their suicidal self-loathing.
But it not wholly in the area of life itself that the Dark Lord Muolih found himself unable to craft anything that was not a vile mockery of the Creator’s efforts. In an attempt to recreate the sumptuous and heavenly feasts at the table of Cubaeh, Muolih sought to give his chief chef Phonru (a fallen being who had once served Gyfeil the Gourmand) recipes worthy of the Creator’s table. In this effort he failed; Muolih’s concoctions as realized by Phonru were edible, even nourishing, but they were never more than hollow and dark echoes of the delights heaping the table of Cubaeh.
The most notable, and notorious, creation of Muolih in this regard was his attempt to craft a chocolate chip cookie. Said cookies were foremost among the fancies of Gyfeil the Gourmand and touched directly by the Creator; Muolih’s efforts to craft his own were a dismal failure. And so came into being oatmeal raisin cookies, made by the Dark Lord in envy and mockery of chocolate chip cookies much as he made Goblins in envy and mockery of the Fairies.
November 14, 2013
“Gob,” said Eyon, for their hired sellsword goblin would answer to no other name, “why have Gullywax and I never seen your face?”
“Gob’s face is not important to the job,” came the reply, full of metal and echoes as it issued from the holes in the creature’s helmet.
“But what if you were to lose your armor?” pressed Eyon. “How would I recognize you?”
“If Gob were to lose its armor, Gob would shortly lose its life,” was the reply. “Recognizing Gob would be useless at that point.”
“That’s another thing,” said Eyon. “Why do you call yourself ‘it’ all the time? Why not ‘he’ or ‘she’ or something?”
“Master does not know about gob ways, so Gob will forgive him his ignorance and his insult,” replied the mercenary goblin.
“Gobs are given no names at birth,” said Gullywax, overhearing the conversation. “They must earn a name other than that of their species through their deeds and by asserting themselves over lesser gobs. A gob with no name and no followers is not considered worthy of even a pronoun.”
“How awful!” cried Eyon.
“Awful? Gob finds it awful that humans with no accomplishments and none to command by might, rather than by coin, are entitled to names. Gob history is uncluttered with names to remember, and Gob’s own family is nameless back to its most recent ancestor of consequence.”
“Is that why you’re a mercenary?” asked Eyon. “Is that why you’ve kept working for us despite how little we can pay and how little chance we have of succeeding?”
“No,” said Gob. “Gob will speak no more of it.”
The mercenary charged a short way up the road, out of earshot, muttering something about reconnaissance. Eyon was about to follow when the lad felt Gullywax’s hand heavy on his shoulder.
“Ho there, boy,” he said. “Tarry awhile. There is one more thing you must know about gob names.”
“What’s that?”
“When a gob is defeated, or cast down, or when one loses all its followers, it loses its name,” said Gullywax. “It is treated as if the bearer of that name has died until the gob does something to earn its name back.”
January 30, 2013
“But shouldn’t we hire someone a bit stronger? A bit taller?” Eyon squinted at the goblins lined up along Sellsword Street. “I think the tallest of them barely has a hand on me, and I’m short for my age.”
“Patience, boy,” said Gullywax. “Much as I’d like to hire you an oakshaft spearman or a fey crossbowman or even a human, we’ve not ten coins to rub together between the two of us. We’ll have to make do with a gob until more coin or more renown comes our way.”
At the wanderers’ approach, the goblins (and their handlers) began to shout and heckle them.
“You there, boy! Good strong gob here, eight coin!”
“Gob for hire! Will bring own arquebus if you bring shot!”
“Finest gob in Sellsword! Was chief of Earpincher tribe once!”
“Gob! Gob! Gob here! Kill protect and serve!”
Gullywax whispered advice at Eyon as they walked along the cobblestones. “Don’t pick any that are too short; goblins grow all their lives and the taller ones are the most experienced. Pick one with armor; it will last longer in serious combat and have a better chance in ambushes. A sword is better than a bow or hammer because it can parry blows as well as attack. Don’t be afraid to haggle, but keep in mind the lowest any will go is half their initial offer.”
Eyon paused in front of a goblin taller than he was with burnished armor and sword. “How much?”
“Hunnert coin fer ten days,” the gob sniffed.
“Too much coin for too short a time,” whispered Gullywax, his whiskers tickling Eyon’s ear.
Further along, a goblin in ramshackle armor was swaying as if drunk (or punch-drunk) and using a sword for a crutch. “Five coin, thitty days,” it panted. “Bes’ deal onna Shellshord.”
“Obviously something wrong with that one.” Eyon was inclined to agree.
Eventually, they came upon a goblin with solid-looking (if coated with a rusty patina) armor, a sword that shone at the edge and the point, and a massive iron helmet that covered its head and all its features.
“How much to hire you?” Eyon said. The gob looked a good compromise in height, and stood solidly with boots planted on the ground.
“Fifteen coins, thirty days,” said the goblin, its voice echoing in its helmet.
“Hm.” It seemed solid enough, and quiet in comparison, but that could as easily be an indicator of weakness or stupidity as strength. “Impress me.”
The goblin clanked forward, lifted its sword, and tossed it into the air. It pivoted, and with a short running start ran up a nearby brick wall before launching itself, seizing the sword in midair, and falling with it–a lethal spike–to the ground. The sword buried itself in the packed earth up to its hilt.
“I think we’ve found our gob.”
Inspired by this.
Excerpts From Nonexistent Books 