It was another new day. The sun shining through the small tears in the fur hut that Jag slept in caused him to stir unceremoniously. He soon found that the glare in his eyes was too much to bear and slowly sat up, looking around grogg- eyed at his tiny fur-clad abode. Home.

He emerged from his hut, a small well polished dagger in hand. His dagger. Why did he carry it around? Simple. Custom. 

Goblins were, as far as the so-called “civilized races” were concerned, a group of evil, ravenous, monsters who hunted for sport and procreation, raided for treasures they had no use for, and were naught but pests that needed extermination for the sake of peace. But that was only half the story.

Every goblin, from the lowlands in the south to the mountainous regions in the north, lived in tribes. Every tribe had their own rules, their own hierarchy, their own customs and ways of living that made each group unique. For example, in the east there lived a group of Goblins in a tribe called the Got-Ro under a tribal shaman. They were a people that were prone to sea expeditions, they fashioned boats out of carved trees and created propulsion via long oars. Crude by the standards of a dwarven blacksmith, but functional nonetheless. There is another tribe The Mal-Uk, who were on the farthest western edge of the continent who actively engaged in trade with the nearby villages, trading hunted animals and pelts for leavened bread and milk. Things they were not accustomed to getting themselves. Each tribe had their own way of doing things. Each is distinct in their manner of survival and lifestyle. But that isn't to say the rumors were wholly untrue.

There are numerous tribes dotted throughout the world where the goblins live exactly as the rumors suggest. They raid for supplies on nearby villages, taking women for a variety of purposes, and are often caught in the middle of far more powerful and evil creatures’ schemes. 

And then there was the Ko-Ten, Jag’s tribe. They were simple forest people. They had lived in the central continent’s great forest expanse for as long as their shaman’s history recorded. They hunted for small game in the forest, they caught fish in the river, they gathered berries and fruits from nearby foliage. And they never left their territory. It was a simple, albeit, peaceful existence. 

This isn't to say that the Ko-Ten were not fierce, far from it. They took their territorial borders very seriously. They had to. There were many other manner of creatures who called the forest home. From boars who tower over the trees, Wyverns making nests, 4 Armed red bears settling near lakes, and even some fairy folk. Jag’s tribe ensured that anyone who violated their borders were met with no mercy. But they had little interest in the world outside their own. They avoided contact with the civilized races as best they could, humans, elves, dwarves, beastkin, the like, all posed a danger to their home. But for 10 generations they had survived comfortably.

Today, however, was a big day, despite Jag’s lackadaisical attitude to waking up, the birth of the tribe’s first female in this generation was said to be occurring.

It was a misconception that Goblins had no females. While most humans would assume goblins couldn't procreate unless they kidnapped the women of other races, this was simply not true. Yet again, another unfounded rumor. It was true that goblins had an incredibly high conception rate, a low gestation period, and an ability to breed new goblins across different races, but it was not their sole means of achieving new family. In fact most shied away from using others outside their race. In many tribes, just as a human man would be shunned for taking on a goblin bride, they too would shun any non goblin living amongst them. It was simply reprehensible. Other races were not to be trusted.

So for the tribes who lived amongst themselves without interacting with outsiders a female goblin, born rarely but often at least once a generation, was a key to the survival of their species. The females were… to steal a term used by humans, royalty. They were treated as the highest authority in the tribe behind whoever the leader is, Shaman, hobgoblin, champion, king, whatever. She would be given a life of luxury, protected at all costs, and be genuinely cared for by all members of the tribe with equal passion. And in exchange she would bear the responsibility of continuing the tribe’s genealogy. An equitable exchange, as far as they were concerned. Today the tribe Mother Zel was prophesied by the shaman to be giving birth to the newest member of the tribe, a girl. And the whole tribe was abuzz about it.

As Jag walked through the worn dirt paths of his town he watched as the entire town seemed to be filled with an almost joyous energy. The rare barrels of ale they had were being dug out from below the ground. The few trinkets some had, they were bringing out, ready to gift to the newborn, a whole roast pig was already slow cooking over a spitfire, the town was ready for a celebration. And celebration there would be, this was a big deal. The birth of the girl would be the most joyous day for the tribe in years. Even Jag found himself caught up in the spirit of the growing festivities, a big smile on his face as he made his rounds.

Jag was a guard and hunter, that was his duty. He kept the tribe alive by protecting and feeding it. This is why he had his own dagger, not a common thing amongst his tribe members. However, he was not a stoic sort, he enjoyed a good drink and laugh like anyone else. But he took his job seriously. Especially on a day like today, when everyone’s guard would be down, he didn't want any surprises. Despite this, he made his full rounds quickly, excited to join in on the festivities as much as anyone else. 

After he had made his rounds he practically ran back to the village after hearing the shaman’s grand bell ringing through the forest. A sound only rung when an important event was occurring, such as the foretold birth. As he made his way into the town he ran to the town center where Mother Zel and Shaman Pek lived, and dove right into the crowd of others who eagerly awaited the news. 

Jag was lucky. He was taller than most others, nearly 4 feet tall, he also had a more sturdy build than most, due to the luck of the heavens as well as a byproduct of being a hunter. And, assuming he was to choose not to be humble, he was quite attractive for a goblin. His nose was sharper than average, his eyes bigger, his stride wider, and most of all, when he ate his full, sometimes you wouldn't even be able to see his ribs. Needless to say he was quite the catch, the envy of many other goblins in the tribe. But he didn’t let it get to his head. After all, he was still young, only 3 years old. Nothing like the wise and ancient 30 year old shaman who led his village. But as an adult he couldn’t help but feel pride that he had become such an attractive looking man. 

Still, all of this to say that when Jag dove into the ranks of the tribe to watch the spectacle with everyone else. He was tall enough to see over everyone’s heads, though there were a few poor souls stuck behind him with their view blocked but that wasn't his problem.

The Shaman Pek then stepped forward, in front of the crowd and held aloft his totem, the ancient magic staff passed down from shaman to shaman. The staff itself looked to be a short brown-stained stick with a bit of red ribbon tied around the middle where one would grip, a small mouse skull adorned the top of it. As he held it aloft the whole crowd silenced their murmurs, everyone turning to look at him and listen.

“As foretold today is a day of great blessing for our tribe!” he proclaimed with a broad grin and his arms open wide, staff still in hand. “The birth of one so precious to us draws near, we thank Zintoka the almighty above for his grand blessing and pray that the young one will live a full life of joy and happiness!” He proclaims to the sky, getting a brief round of cheers from everyone, including Jag.

Zintoka was, to the goblins, God. They recognized other gods, there was the god of creation, the gods of nature, the god of time, the god of humans, elves, dwarves, the god of the dragons, and so on and so forth. But to them only Zintoka mattered, he created them, he was the one who granted the goblins the gift of life. To them he was all. And so sacred was he that only a shaman was allowed to speak his name. As he was the one closest to receiving his blessings.

“But I'm sure none of you gathered here to hear the ramblings of an old fogey like me.” Pek said with a smile, getting a laugh from the onlookers. “Let us welcome this new child into the world.” He says before stepping off to the side and letting the light seep into the open flaps of the town’s largest tent where Mother Zel lived.

And then Mother Zel emerged from the tent, draped in a fine white cloth covering her head to toe, with only her face visible, dragging the delicate material across the dirt ground with every step she took. In her hands lay a small quivery buddle, it too wrapped in white cloth. She smiled as she gazed upon her children, a smile that only a mother could give as she gently, and slowly raised the bundle up into the air letting the onlookers see the newborn girl.

Pek raised his arms in joy, as a gesture of gratitude to god for granting them a boon. The circle of life continued, as it always would. He gently looked over at the small creature Mother Zel held in her hands and pulled it free from the cloth.

“Welcome to the world, little one.” He says as he gently takes the baby into his own arms now. “Your name shall henceforth be Zot” He says with a warm tone to the child seemingly only interested in grabbing at his finger.

Goblin names had a structure to them. Goblins considered short names to be names that carried power, ability, intelligence. A long name was indicative of an inability to achieve greatness on one's own. As such, every goblin within the To-Ken tribe, at least, had only one syllable name. Jag, of course, was no exception. Everyone in the tribe earned their places through merit, not lineage. However the letter Z was special. No one in the village had a name starting with Z other than Mother Zel and the newborn Zot. The letter Z was seen as a direct connection to God, Zintoka himself was represented with the letter Z for that very reason, if representation was needed. As such the only people blessed with a name starting with the letter Z were the women of the tribe, those who were the most highly honored and valued. Perhaps the only members of the tribe who were born into lineage. But for good reason.

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“From this day on, this little one shall be welcomed into the village! Praise Zintoka! Praise Mother Zel, Praise the Ko-Ten!” He says which was met with uproarious cheers from the crowd. Zot had been born and there was nothing left to do but to celebrate. And so celebrate they did.

Meat, beer, and other such delicacies were brought out in a grand feast everyone in the town took part in. Even Mother Zel, who usually was kept safely in her home, was out and about freely, letting all who were curious to see the newborn happily. 

Jag himself took great joy in the vast array of food and drink he was allowed to access. Food was never so scarce as to prevent anyone from eating their fill, but rarely did jag feel full. It was only days like today, the first time in his life, that he could eat until he could pop. He had been so looking forward to this day.

“Jag!” Tel, Jag’s friend and hunting partner called out to him as he sauntered over, a large mug of ale in hand. “I'm so glad to see you made it to the festivities!” He says with a big grin. Tel was on the short side for a goblin, only standing at about 3 feet. Which made for quite a spectacle when posed next to Jag, but his height had nothing on his ferocity, when it came to fighting and hunting Tel was a far greater warrior than even Jag. Though that could be because Tel was a vaunted 7 years old, he’d been doing this for a long time, he was the most experienced hunter in the village. 

“Tel!” Jag said back to him with a wide smile as well. “I am too! You have no idea how much I have been looking forward to this meal!” 

Tel laughed. “Indeed, you haven’t shut up about it for the past 2 weeks!” He laughs, teasing his friend with some light jabs. Jag just blushes slightly and gently hits Tel in the ribs, not to hurt him, but to get back at him for the metaphorical jab with a physical one.

“Well you aren’t wrong.” Jag agrees with a laugh. “I cannot tell you how much I wanted to fill my belly to the brim! Live like a human king for a day!”

“Oh, my friend, you do not want such a fate! I hear human kings sit on stone chairs all day and are nary allowed to hunt or play as we do! I pity them, who are so shackled.” Tel responds. Tel was among the wiser Goblins of the tribe too. Not just because he was among the oldest, which was true, but because he had, as a goblin that went out for hunting and guarding, once met a human merchant who stumbled upon the tribe’s territory long ago. In normal circumstances he would have killed him but the merchant seemed to have convinced Tel not to kill him. Afterwards he shared with Tel many interesting anecdotes about the world beyond the forest. This is why Tel had so many stories to tell. This isn't to say that the tribe is wholly isolated, they got other goblin visitors from far away tribes, they met some passing by warband of goblins off to raid a town, two generations ago the Mother of the village was actually a trade with another goblin tribe to keep the Ko-Ten alive. So they knew much of the outside world as they needed. Jag was more informed than most as it was part of his duties to be aware of the world at large. Afterall when dealing with human intruders you need to fight them differently than an elvish one. Knowledge is power, as shaman Pek would say. Jag was unsure if this was true but he didn’t argue.

“Perhaps, my friend. But maybe I can dream of an overfull belly every day just like those fat kings.” Jag grins back before downing his mug of ale as well.

The day drags on as the sun begins to set, and the party does not yet seem to abate. As the moon hangs high in the sky only then did the movements of the party goers begin to slow down.

“Jag!” Pek said, calling Jag over as the once loud celebrations were beginning to settle to a softer more casual tone amongst those that were still awake. Jag got up from his seat, placing his empty plate and mostly empty mug on the squatting table as he walked over to the shaman. 

“What is it, Shaman?” Jag said as he straightened himself up a little bit as he approached, not much, just enough to not be as much of a slouch as he was a moment ago. However as he spoke these words there was a strange expression on Pek’s face. One he didn’t recognize. The old man had been around for more than ten times as long as he lived, and from the stories told about him he had lived to see the tribal mother before Zel’s own tribal mother, the length of time in question was mind boggling for Jag, but the expression on Pek’s face now was… pensive, apprehensive, and a little bit scared.

Jag opened his mouth to question this but was interrupted by Pek speaking. “I have a… important task for you Jag…” He said with a tone that seemed unsure of himself, almost suspicious. But once more before Jag could question this Pek spun around to the wooden pedestal that was erected for Zot to be shown off on, covered with furs creating a makeshift cradle. And picked her up. He then spun back around and handed Zot over to Jag.

“You are to take the young Zot to…” He seems to pause, almost as if searching for something in his mind. “...The Fist.” He says finishing his sentence, now with more confidence. “Yes, you are to take her to The Fist.” He says again, strangely. Jag could tell something was up, but he had no idea what, as he cradled the young one in his arms, confused what was happening, he was under the impression he wouldn’t be allowed to hold the new Mother at all.

“You want me to make a trek through the forest to the mountain, and make it to The Fist with the new Mother?” Jag asked, beside himself with confusion now. 

“Yes Yes.” Pek responds almost impatiently. “I need you to take her to the mountain, it is a very important ritual that must be undergone for all new Mothers before they reach the age of ascension, a um… single warrior must accompany the young one on the journey and only after arriving, will she be blessed by Zintoka for our tribe.” His tone was almost hurried, as if he was impatient about something. “I can not entrust this task to anyone else. It must be you Jag.” He says sternly as he gently, but firmly, pushes the still sleeping and cradled Zot further into Jag’s arms and chest. “There can be no delay, you must set off immediately.”

“I dont… understand Shaman… why me? Why now? How come I haven’t heard anything about this I-” Jag begins before he is cut off once more by Pek. “There is no time, young one. Only you can complete this task I am giving you. I have already seen it in my visions.” He says not backing down at all. The way Pek enunciated “you” also caught Jag’s attention but he was so caught off guard by the entire thing that he didn’t know what to say. 

“Now go, the journey will take you three days to get there and at least three to get back. You must go now.” Pek says as he spins Jag around and begins to push him towards the exit of the village. 

“But I-” Jag starts only to again be cut off by Pek.

“No questions, begone Jag, you have a long journey ahead of you.” He said, now with a more solemn tone. But by now Jag had no more ability to question or deny Pek, he was, after all, the wisest, and most sagely of the entire tribe, he was the leader, and he was the most trusted, no matter what thoughts Pek had going on in his head there was not a single doubt in his mind that pek was doing this for the good of all. So he obliged.

Jag left, immediately after being told to do so by Pek, he had nary the time to pack, he simply grabbed a small bundle of food from the table that had yet to be cleared or stored away and trudged off, little Zot in hand. The journey to The Fist would take a few days, he could easily hunt and scavenge on the way there but having some food to start with was a valuable asset, especially since he had to worry about little Zot. 

As he crested over the far hill, the very outer edge of Ko-Ten’s territory, a 2 hour walk from the village, he could see the very faint light of fires still burning, probably still from the celebration and the drunk fools who refused to sleep even after a whole day of it. 

So, with a heavy heart he couldn't enjoy the rest of the festivities, he walked throughout the night. Slept till evening the next day and continued the journey. The trip itself was uneventful, nothing strange even outside of his tribe’s territory, he knew which areas to steer clear of to begin with. He was smart, not just for a goblin but perhaps even when compared to some other races. Jag picked up on things that others often couldn't, or learned new skills at breakneck speeds. All goblins were fast learners, but Jag was even faster. Still none of that affected his journey, just helped keep him safe during it. 

Finally, after 3 days of travel, he arrived at the middle point of the mountain where a rock the size of a human house stuck out of the side of the mountain like a massive tumor. It was vaguely fist shaped, like a hand punched through the mountain and emerged into the cool mountain air, now still a fist in a triumph of victory. This is why it was called The Fist. Simply because it looked like one.

But it was not a holy site or anything. Perhaps Pek himself thought of the fist as proof of Zintoka’s power? Perhaps this rock is Zintoka’s fist made real? Jag was unsure. He still, even after days of travel with the baby, had no idea what this journey was about, though, he assumed, it was just a barely mentioned part of the Motherhood ascension ritual that isn't spoken about. He still had tons of questions but with no answers, he just stuck to his task.

He brought little Zot to the fist and unwrapped her from her cloth sheathe and then kneeled before the fist presenting little Zot to the stone as if he was swearing allegiance to a lord. He kept this up for no more than a minute before he unceremoniously wrapped her back up, to ensure she stayed warm in the cool mountain air, and then began the long trek back to the village. Much like his trip to the Fist, his trip back was equally uneventful, though he did hear a warning cry from a mother Red Bear that seemed to be warding off some sort of predator. Luckily he was far enough away to not let it be his concern but he slept with one eye open that night.

Finally, after a week of journeying, an extra day longer than what was expected, he arrived back into his territory. A huge weight was lifted off his shoulders as he once more walked the dirt paths of familiar lands, happy to have this ordeal behind him. He was woefully underprepared to care for Zot, he did his best, cleaned up after her, made the food easier for her to chew and eat, ensured she got a healthy amount of sleep, but if anything, it made him appreciate the Mother’s role in the tribe even more. If nothing else it would be his takeaway from this whole experience.

However the first inklings of something being wrong began to creep into his mind as he got within a few minutes of the village. He heard no sounds. Not impossible, if the residents were not shouting or the like it was entirely possible that he simply couldn't hear them from as far as he was, but Goblins were not a quiet people, except when they hunt. But still he did not let this strange occurrence bother him. He was exhausted after the long journey and excited to be home, having his large fur pelt to sleep on once again.

But then, as he walked through the last of the trees separating his village from the rest of the forest he saw it. Or rather what was left of it. Ashes. It was all burnt down.