June 18, 2015

From “Rnaea Stonethrower’s Ogre” by Lucy Y. Shantell

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“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.

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April 28, 2015

From “The Deeds of Goblins” by Lucy Y. Shantell

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These are they of the gobs that have earned for themselves a name and a place amongst their people. In the name of gobs, the deeds of gobs.

Gozudt Slitpipes
Grandmaster of the Hardscrabble Guild, which he built from a gob street gang into a crime syndicate unrivaled in all of Newcastle-Upon-Sands. The “slitpipes” appellation comes from his preferred method of assassination and his willingness, even as an elderly and powerful gob, to dirty his hands with his work. The name he chose for himself comes from the gob word “goz” meaning “under, beneath” and the suffix “udt” meaning “chieftain.” “Underchieftain” would be a reasonable approximation in Manspeech.

Kem the Beneficent
Born into extreme privation as a member of a gob band outside the walls of Fortress Donahue, Kem founded the Goblin Mutual Aid Society and shepherded it as leader. Though its name may make it sound like a benefit society or gentleman’s club, the GMAS was actually a tontine. Gobs would found or become members of a local chapter, and whenever one died, his properties would be split among the others. Extremely popular, especially among unmarried gobs and those with property but little status, the GMAS was a way to turn the frequent deaths of gobs to its members’ advantage. “Kem” does not equare to any known gob word; rather, it was simply chosen by its bearer for its sound.

Snegob Fingerling
Gob fishpickers are an indespensible part of every fishery operation, going over heaps of offal and refuse for usable parts of accidentally discarded usable fish. However, this work was once performed by human children or not at all; Snegob Fingerling is credited with the idea and assembling the first gang of gobs to perform it at the legendary stinking fish-oil docks of Cantonia. By only asking that the gobs be paid in gratuity or useable things they found, Snegob was able to undercut his competition and all but monopolize the industry. Due to his propensity for finding small live fish he was called “Fingerling;” “Snegob” is a conjunction of the verb “to snatch” and, of course, “goblin.” Thus, Snatchergoblin.

Ztegolb the Twice-Risen
Ztegolb was once the leader of a band of gob mercenaries which he formed out of the remains of his original home village. Thanks to luck and thorough drilling they were able to find steady work and turned back an assault by human deserters on a farming settlement. This gave Ztegolb his first name and reknown, which increased as his band grew in numbers, training, and equipment. However, his gobs were badly defeated and massacred at the Battle of the Bloody Hillock thanks to an ambush. Ztegolb and a handful of his gobs survived, stripped of their names in disgrace. In response, Ztegolb carefully stalked the bandit bands who had defeated him, learning their movement patterns and weaknesses over a period of years before swooping in to annihilate them in a brilliant tactical plan. He chose a new name rather than resuming the old: “zte” being the prefix for “great” and “golb” meaning either “patience” or “cunning” (and of the same cognate as “gob). Thus, Great-Patience or Great-Cunning.

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March 18, 2015

From “The Sword of Gob” by Lucy Y. Shantell

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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.”

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June 29, 2014

From “The Code of the Gobs” by Lucy Y. Shantell

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Muolih, the Spreading Darkness, He Who Was Cast Down, was destroyed and scattered to the winds at the conclusion of the Greatwar. Though Muolih was forever a disembodied spirit gnashing at himself in the great everdark beyond, his defeat did not spell the end of his influence. There were his lieutenants, of course; foul fallen beings like Phonru the Devourer from whom the Creator had turned His loving gaze, but they were no more than shadows of Muolih’s power: minor warlords who could carve out a fief and little more.

Far moreso than any who sought to carry on his dark work, the great legacy of Muolih was in the servants that he left behind. The Goblins, or Gobs, are by far the most numerous and prevalent, having been fashioned by Muolih in his darkpits as a counterpart to the Fairies and Pixies who are bound to nature and the Creator. The secret of their origin has been lost to time, but Gob legend holds that they are the direct descendents of Fairies and Pixies who were won to Muolih’s cause and altered to serve his needs.

Bereft of purpose after their master’s defeat, the Gobs were nevertheless highly adaptable and intelligent and were bound to artificial constructs like metal and steel in the same way that Fairies were bound to nature. This long-ago loss and continued flourishing (after a fashion) has had an indelible effect on Gob religion and culture, which tends toward dualism and extreme privation as exemplified by the Code of the Gobs that most follow:

These are the laws of the People, known to some as the Goblins or the Gobs.

The People are stained with the sin of their creation and must therefore earn the right to all which they possess.

The People have no name, for as a people they have not yet earned one. Hence they must be referred to only by the names given to them by the Multitudinous Enemies.

The People must earn names and pronouns for themselves through their actions. Only the People who have earned a name will be remembered to their families and to history.

When a member of the People is defeated, or disgraced, they lose their name. It must be earned back through a trial equal to that by which the name was first won, or lost.

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November 14, 2013

From “In the Name of Gob” by Lucy Y. Shantell

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“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.”

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January 30, 2013

From “The Mercenary Goblin” by Lucy Y. Shantell

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“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.

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