Ten goblins advanced as one. It was discipline, yes, but the Captain’s [Mood Anchor] also tempered and moderated the passions of his squad. Shoulder to shoulder, their front rank held their weapons pointed high, and the back rank hoisted a second bristling row over their shoulders.
“Surrender, and we’ll hurt you,” barked the Captain.
“Less, though!” piped up a voice from the back of the squad.
The Captain’s [Cowing Bluster] emanated oppressively and tickled against Rhode’s survival instinct, just in case his will might break.
Ten goblins closed the gap; the iron blades they levered forward leaf-shaped and flat, with a curled barb along one edge. One skirmisher broke from their formation. She ducked low, and called on [Wheeeee!] to glide across the rug. Her spear stabbed out, probing towards Rhode’s face but coming short. Then nine of her cohort advanced and reabsorbed her into the safety of their porcupine wall of points.
Rhode stumbled backwards in surprise, and heard a squeal as someone small threw herself out of the way of his clomping feet. His crutch jammed up under his armpit painfully as he caught his balance. Another spear jabbed threateningly towards him, like he was an animal being herded.
“Hey. No,” Rhode scolded them. He leaned heavily on one crutch and swung the other up and forward: pointed in challenge. “Bad. I’mma hit you with a stick.”
“[Sharp] [Nudge],” spoke a voice, as a spike was thrust at Rhode again.
“Ack,” went the homunculus’ war cry as his flailing pole knocked the spear off course. The move could almost have been mistaken for intentional. But Rhode’s arm was bleeding anyway, a score across his skin that split a stitch.
“How did you even hit me? Eintirp,” Rhode coldly asked, “am I gonna get in trouble if I thump these jerks?”
The little page planted her feet at shoulder width; with one hand on her hip and the other pointed up at Rhode. Her mouth was set in a line of resolute and calm determination. “I’m not with him,” she declared, and dove tumbling back into the open buttery.
Rhode ceded further still to the searching, seeking, multi-side attack. With each step, his crutches swung wildly and caught blades which cut them deeply. Nick by ding, and splinter by sliver they were being whittled down. Rhode’s knees ached to carry him. Likely, he was about to be surrounded. He glanced at his right-side pole. Likely, it was going to break.
“Should I tell you I’m the Hero?” growled the monster. “Ugh, that sounds so conceited, though,” he groaned. “Y’all, I really feel like you should be able to intuit this from context.”
Then he whipped his stick about a whistling arc, and threw it spinning at their shins.
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Fun fact of the day: goblin blood is brown. Not an ugly brown, or a muddy one, but a vibrant, fulsome color which has no equivalent on Earth: a bright-hued mix of green and red. The floors of the grand hall of leisure ring were white marble, and they were fouled with streaks of drying gred.
“I’m really sorry about my brother,” Ux assured the guard of House Chyulln. He pulled away with bloody hands. “But on the bright side, you do have two kidneys.”
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The boy lay at the foot of the grand stair, his head propped up against the lip of a step. A humble ochre fish and loaf of bread displayed across the young man’s coat. There were dimples in his cheeks, and his hands gripped fiercely at his wounded side. “I…” he gasped, “donated the other one to my sister in law.”
“… oh.”
Like a bursting dam, mana flowed from deep within the merchant’s body – from the space between his flesh and soul. It coiled about Ux’s core, guided surely by the inscrutable laws of levels and fate. As his mana surged, the goblin merchant clutched at his chest with a grimace. His new level grew both denser and more true.
Obtained: [Gastric Ulcer] → ○○
Every muscle in Ux’s face that was powered by joy, drooped. He patted the side of his curly hair, just in case he could feel some white ones grow in just at that moment. It has to be said that it was a shame that Ux could not have a [Status] Bangle in his life that night. Perhaps he could have found some comfort in knowing that he’d just unlocked a viable path to [Acid Spit].
Admittedly, it was possible he had other things on his mind.
Ux raised his head and scanned the hall for some sign of his cousins. Thankfully, very few things were on fire yet, but screams had split the night from more than one direction. Broken glass and twisted lead joinery were strewn beyond a battered door. Smoke hung thick, and continued to wisp from a wide, overturned basin. It was meant to smother a fire his brother had set, but Ux had left a gap and now the whole mess was too hot and late to fix.
“I had to borrow money for the operation,” whimpered the soldier. Gory hands reached out for Ux, and reflexively, he jerked away.
The merchant knew he needed a weapon, like the service hatchet on the Chyulln boy’s belt; fixed to his hip by a little buttoned leather strap. Ux’s lips peeled back from his teeth, and the tendons in his neck flexed tense. Gently the gob pushed aside the soldier's hands and unclasped the weapon from his side.
“We’re deeply in debt to terrible people,” choked the young man, as his eyes unfocused.
Merchant Ux missed his hat. It was gone now. He’d lost it, and he was probably never going to get it back. He hefted the soldier’s little ax between two hands and then he politely ran away. Doors slammed shut and locked as he passed. The shattered ceramic shards of a vase crunched beneath his shoe. Urgent shouts rose up from everywhere around him, and wild laughter too.
Ux wondered what sort of outfit he should wear to his execution. He’d always looked his best in blue – he’d ask them if he could change his shirt.
“Trox? Baurkin?” Ux shouted. His legs pumped beneath him, and a sour reflux rose in his gullet. Salons, lounges and galleries flew past as he ran.
There was a woman sitting on the floor outside the lower gallery. Cross-legged, she held an uncut loaf of spiced pound-cake in her bare hands and chewed on it with an expression of sublime ecstasy. “Tell no one,” she threatened. Crumbs sprayed like shrapnel at his back.
But Ux had already passed beyond the turn into darkness, where the lanterns hung cold and depleted.
The perimeter rooms receded, then ended. Moonlight announced a great bay window of checkered crystal before it appeared ahead around the bend. Of the two delicate silk curtains that had framed it that morning, one was torn and the second one was simply missing, and it seemed naked as it revealed the outer palace grounds. Ux slowed to a stop there, under the broad view it offered.
The main gate stood in the distance: an iron fence in a wall of white. A crowd of brass and green was pinned against it, dozens of goblins clamoring in the night.
Sometimes it is hard for gobs to imagine that the Ring does not revolve around them. Some nights, your story isn’t the most important one being told. Ux looked out and watched as a cruel wall of orange and black marched on the servants of Malachite. The Prince’s folk laid their clubs and cudgels into soft bodies and fragile bones.
But Ux had family of his own. He turned away.