Two torturously bright suns sat defiantly still over the hills of the Vich. The wind must've seen it happen too, for it also chose to stop in its tracks. If only fanning your hat and looking to the sky had some way of changing the weather. The topsiders would probably have summoned rain or even sleet just for a chance at breaking the monotony of the heat.

Tsetse Vigg laughed at the thought of topsiders sweltering in their fields and castles. Perched on a pile of blankets in the cool, damp air of their cave, Vigg passed the evening lazily pondering the lives of those who lived under the blinding hatred of Vich's twin suns. “Why do they even stay there?" Vigg wondered aloud, stirring the six or so other goblins sleeping on them.

“Who stays where?" a voice called from the cave chamber's entrance. Vigg arched and craned their head until they caught sight of Wehboog smiling at the small sleep-pile Vigg had been encased by. “Be specific," he chided.

“Wehboog," Vigg grinned, “I was hoping my head researcher could hear my query, and there you are! I was thinking of the topsiders again, why do they stay out during the blinding hours?"

“The consensus is, I believe," he explained loudly so as to awaken the bedmates, “that their bodies rely on the plants that grow under the sun's hatred."

Once everyone had awoken they helped Vigg to their feet and began rearranging the pillows and blankets into a circular seating area.

“I know the topsiders only eat the topside plants, but surely said plants grow on their own, don't they? Why not wait until the blessing of the moons and gather what has grown?"

Wehboog laughed, “Enough silliness, there's work to be done now."

“I am serious," Vigg protested with ears drooped in a feigned pout. Such theatrics were cut short by various attendants who sought to dress Vigg, ushering Wehboog from the room. “We shall discuss this at supper! I expect my loyal researcher to have answers for me!" Tsetse Vigg's smile lingered as their aides helped them into the day's attire: a ceremonial outfit crafted from elements of goblin, orc, and kobold culture. The outfit was tailored to frame their face, hands, and belly most prominently.

Vigg's thoughts and hands dwelled upon their body. A goblin chieftain's body must not only represent but also manifest aspects of their colony. Often this meant a strong chieftain training hard to get more muscles in the hopes that their community's spirit would also grow stronger. Tsetse Vigg's approach was not to embody strength, however, but prosperity. In the name of their colony Vigg has been cultivating soft musculature and ample fat stores as the embodiment of wealth gained without violence or toil. They've also taken great care in their own safety and have no scars to speak of in an effort to keep the spirit of their people unbound and free from oppression.

“My liege," Wehboog coughed as he stepped into Vigg's wandering line of sight. He was wearing one of his outrageous custom outfits that covered nearly everything but his head. These outfits were a great source of puzzlement and befuddled theorizing around the colony. The gloves, they would rationalize, are for his safety in the alchemy lab, as were the boots in case of spills, that much made sense to fellow goblins. But why the tunic and stockings? Did he have scars that he was ashamed of? Surely he must know that scars are celebrated amongst goblinkind, even in their peaceful bastion. Maybe he was concealing a lack of scars? But he is forever at Vigg's side, who has shown everyone that a lack of scars can be good as well. Then they would ask the most important question of all: why does he never take any of it off, even in private? Such a curious fellow, they would all agree. So curious.

Vigg's attention reigned in as they felt Wehboog's finger poke into their cheek. “Goodness me! Do give a warning next time, please," Vigg touched the indented skin softly, “you know how bony your hands are, even through the leather."

“I said," the alchemist sighed, “are you done caressing yourself or shall I tell the colony to wait a moment longer?"

A sudden awareness swept through Vigg followed immediately by a buzz of embarrassment as they realized that their fingers had been tracing lazy, curving lines around their belly for several minutes. They had been completely dressed and painted for who knows how long and no one thought to snap them out of it. This self-consciousness faded quickly, however, replaced by an all-too-knowing smile that signaled Wehboog that a retort was about to be made. Without a word he turned heel and retreated hastily.

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Bouts of sputtering giggles escaped the waddling chieftain as they made their way to the gathering hall. Just outside its doors were Wehboog and Birdo the Indomitable, head of the kobold warrens within the colony and a powerful warrior. As always they awaited the signal of their chieftain to enter the hall and begin the night's trials.

A playful groan escaped Wehboog as he noticed the mischievous smile he had just ran from had not yet departed from Vigg's round, blood-rushed cheeks. When they had finally reached him, however, they were hopelessly out of breath and sweating their ceremonial markings off. Wehb called for a seat and drink to be fetched immediately as he began wiping away at any markings that appeared significantly undone and reapplying them with his own supply of soft white clay. “It may not be the traditional color per se, but I do not suppose that tradition has ever stopped the likes of us?"

Vigg attempted a smile and a nod through their strained breathing, but had not yet the capacity to respond in turn. They could only sip from the dram of river water and look into Wehb's anxious face as he focused deeply into tidying their appearance.

Eventually Vigg had caught their breath, followed soon after by Wehb finishing what he could of the sigils. As Vigg was helped to stand they beamed, “I have a counter for you, regarding your previous observation."

Vigg's glimmering eyes did little to inspire joy from Wehb's persistent look of stoic tiredness. “I know you do," he sighed.

“What?" they searched his face for hints of falsehood, “but I've only just told you. What sortilege is this?"

“No, my chieftain, this is no sorcery. And while you had not yet told me of your retort, well, you see, how shall I pose this: You have this face."

“I do indeed," they could not stifle a laugh.

Yellow rushed to Wehb's cheeks as he clarified, “I had meant to say that there is a look your face happens to make when you, shall we say, prepare a retort. Is this making sense?"

“O Wehb, I understood immediately upon seeing you flee the gathering chambers. I merely enjoy seeing you express emotions other than disappointment and discontent."

“Hmm, I see."

“Now, this is what I am seeking less of. My retort?"

“Yes, my liege.”

“Oh good," Chieftain Tsetse Vigg could not refrain from waving their hands at their sides, “Now, well, you had just made the observation that I was, in my idling, touching my stomach. Except you used the word caressing, so then I would say this." They cleared their throat and leaned in, “Perhaps I would not caress myself if, wait no, it was this: Perhaps I would not need to caress myself so if you, if you had just," Vigg's eyes trailed to Wehb's mouth, “Might I kiss you?"

“With respect, my liege," Wehboog gave his warm, weary grin, “no."

"Ah well," Vigg beamed at the sight of Wehb's smile, "surely you cannot blame me for asking again," before hurrying into the grand hall, leaving Wehboog and Birdo the Indomitable just outside the doors.

A specimen of muscle, scales, and horns, the only similarity Birdo and her chieftain had in common was their height. In the colony this kobold was relied upon heavily to lead defensive outings and handle various other hazards on behalf of Tsetse Vigg.

In her regular fashion of communique, Birdo raised an eyebrow at her fellow lieutenant, inquiring as to his thoughts on the scene that had just unfolded.

Wehboog gave a curt shrug, “The chieftain’s advances do not bother me, this much I’ve told you.”

Still she stood, awaiting more on the matter. Birdo was a keen listener, with a hawk’s eye for finding things others did not have the courage to admit. Until she was satisfied she would not budge, nor would whoever found themselves pinned under her stoic gaze.

“Birdo please, the trials are starting.”

Silence. Glaring.

“Very well,” he stiffened at her persistence, “a compromise, shall we? Visit me at supper tonight and we’ll discuss everything away from prying ears. I’ll need the time to, well, I’ll need to formulate my thoughts and perhaps find the words to say them. More importantly, we both need the time to do our jobs! Come along now, quickly, the trials have begun without us!”

The commotion within the hall had not ebbed for even a moment as the lieutenants took their spots seated at each of their chieftain’s sides. Tsetse Vigg’s attention was devoted entirely to the people before them: two adults and a cub, all of orcish lineage, all speaking at their full volume, all with tears in their eyes. Wehboog grabbed his newest quill and an empty piece of parchment in anticipation of a long, passionate discussion.