“Gohdin is different.” A tin, or some other common metal, clanked against a wooden table. Here, at The Devil’s Nook, were the patrons of a bar that ran on subterranean resources and the transferred payments of those willing to toil somewhere within the deepest tunnels. Though most of the clientele were accustomed to such an environment, living in a gathered society did place more weight on the average citizen’s shoulders.

Goblins were the usual drinkers at the establishment. There was food offered and several options of alcohol the small green, yellow, or sometimes orangish-purple humanoids could imbibe. At this time, there were only a few patrons in the establishment. Four goblins sat at one table, two at another, a minotaur-like creature with an elephant head instead of a bull’s sat alone at the bar, and then there was a drifting creature behind the bar. The owner of the building was a floating, slender figure that wore simple clothes. His thin, yet long, fingers were great for cleaning out the tankards. His face, that of a purple cuttlefish or squid, watched over the tavern with eased eyes and a sense of accomplishment.

The walls were built of a fine wood like a cabin you’d see in the forest. A number of pillars were stuck straight up in the open dining area. Though the room had a short bar and about five tables, it felt just a little cramped. Three or four enchanted torches lit the room to a dull glow where figures danced across the wall as the only form of free entertainment.

“Of course he is.” A hushed voice came from one goblin that downed his drink and fixed a set of goggles meant to darken the room further. Shaking his head, he continued, “Now, he’s King of the Undead.” The two remaining goblins lifted their cups and joined in the cheers.

The first goblin hunched over his drink and thought back to the look of his master, to the feel of him, to the very atmosphere about him. It wasn’t right, he thought to himself. Frowning, the goblin’s teeth poked through in a grave expression.

“Gohdin ain’t Gohdin.” Three goblins sharing a drink and laughing now turned toward their sour companion. His nails dug into the tankard; wooden splinters poking up from the unkempt fingers.

“How’dya mean?” A portlier goblin leaned over the table to look with his one available eye. This one had several scars, burns, and missing pieces. Even some of the digits on his hands were gone—the stubs covered up with leather patches or cloth. “I heard he’s even more amazing now.” He nodded with confidence. “Last I heard, Lord Gohdin spent all day training with the wizard, Sashro.” His head kept bobbing. “My cousin works at the arena. Said that everyone was forced to clear out, but they occasionally felt the ground quake or roars were heard from inside.”

“Gohdin ain’t Gohdin.” That first goblin hunched further over and growled his words. “Gem knows Master, and Master was not looking at Gem.” The angry goblin dug deeper into his tankard. “Gem knows what Gem saw!”

“Keep quiet, ya damn fool.” The scarred goblin spoke while the fourth and silent goblin nodded in agreement. “I’ve had my share of lashings and accidents. I’d like to keep what fingers I have left.” He was smiling, but his voice was low and serious. His one hand waved in the air to show only two fingerings and a thumb.

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“Gem knows.” Gem was staring back with a deadly glare. “Gohdin’s words were soft.” He leaned further over the table. Though the other goblins in attendance disagreed with him, they also closed in the gaps between them as to avoid any eavesdropping. A goblin’s weakness, just below the need to examine and pilfer shiny trinkets, is the need to examine and share in gossip. “Gohdin’s weakened.”

“From the dead, he has risen.” The silent goblin now chimed in. His wild eyes couldn’t seem to fixate on any individual or item in the room. “Power is great, his is.”

“Gem saw the weakness.” Gem began poking himself with a long and gnarled nail. “Gem has feared the lashing since Gem was young, but Gem felt no fear. Gem stood before the master and saw weakness.” He was genuinely upset.

One would conceive that fearing their master was worse than being ruled by someone gentler, but to Gem, and others within The Spire, saw this as a negative. These were groups that in the outside world, separated by race and needs, would have been smaller tribes of ignorant beasts. Here, they were lifted above such a station into something along the lines of man’s civilization. Fear had been the foundation of that collective gathering. Fear forged fellowship among the predators. Fear is what was passed down the hierarchy to keep the world functioning.

“Gem, what are you going on about?” The goblin that sat beside him checked over his shoulder and saw the squid-headed bartender serving another drink to the elephant headed creature at the bar—neither looking suspicious.

The elephant man’s trunk dipped into the tankard and began gulping his concerns away.

“Do goblins follow the weak?” It was a simple question, but one that made the three other goblins recoil slightly. They all looked down and around the table to avoid making eye contact. “Do goblins?”

“No.” The scarred goblin shook his head. He was by far the most muscular goblin at the table. He was a blacksmith while the others were guards and laborers. “But the master is not weak.” His lips peeled back over cracked teeth.

“Gohdin is weak.” Gem couldn’t let it go. How he’d been invited in and how the orders were given without a mad wizard’s signature shouting or lashings prodded at his brain like a spear. “Gem heard Gohdin say,” he leaned in further to listen, “please.”

There was a bit of a gasp from the one beside Gem. The other two looked at one another and then returned to the conversation. “And? You’d claim weakness over a word? His might and our nation are proof of what power he possesses.”

“Proof? Gem sees no proof from Gohdin.” He slumped his shoulders and clutched at his tankard as if someone were trying to steal it. “No proof at all.” He slammed the last of his drink.

“Be that as it may,” the scarred goblin grunted. “Gohdin’s king. The ground shook and the roars were heard. We remain faithful.” Licking his teeth, he watches Gem pout in his seat. “Evidence would be needed. Evidence of weakness.” When Gem looks to the muscular goblin, he is met with a shaking head and disapproving eyes falling upon him like arrows, “Goblins do not follow the weak. We kill the weak.”

Gem finished his drink in silence.