A shrill, primal scream cut through the dense jungle air as Orr, a thin yet wild-eyed female goblin, clung tightly to her roughly drawn spiral lance. Mounted atop a misshapen, stick-figure bear with crooked limbs and jagged edges, she raised her weapon high, her voice echoing through the clearing like the cry of a beast claiming its kill. Her underlings—crude, shaky stick-figure goblins with gnarled limbs and jagged, scrap-like weapons—moved forward, their faceless bodies vibrating with a mindless, almost fanatic energy.
With a deranged grin, Orr pointed her lance forward, urging her creations to charge. Without a flicker of hesitation, they surged ahead, throwing themselves toward the goblin leader in a crazed, merciless swarm. The leader—a hulking, scarred goblin, larger and more muscular than any other in the tribe—stood firm, his heavy, clawed hands gripping a spiked club. His crimson eyes glinted with bloodlust and fury as he took in the approaching wave of crude creatures. But as they closed in, he was taken aback, his thick brow furrowing as he realized the complete lack of hesitation in their movements. They didn’t just run at him—they hurled themselves toward him with reckless abandon, showing no self-preservation, no fear, and no thought of retreat.
With a roar, the leader swung his club down in a powerful arc, smashing the first stick-figure goblin into splinters with a sickening crunch. The force of his blow was terrifying, sending jagged, stick-like limbs flying as he crushed the creature into the ground. Yet, for every one he obliterated, two more threw themselves forward, stepping over the scattered pieces of their fallen comrades, scrambling and climbing over each other, their only goal to pierce him in any way they could.
One stick-figure goblin launched itself directly at his face, wielding a misshapen dagger. The leader swatted it away with a brutal backhand, the creature shattering against a tree. Yet, the goblin beside it took advantage of the momentary distraction, ramming its weapon into his thigh, slicing a jagged line down his muscled leg. Blood spurted from the wound, a dark green streak against his green skin, and he snarled in fury.
He twisted, grabbing one of the stick figures by its throat and crushing it in his grip, splintering it into broken lines and smears. But as he did, another goblin stabbed him from behind, driving a crude weapon into his back with a sickening jab. He howled in pain and rage, spinning to throw off the attacker, but the creatures only pressed in harder, piling over each other, their crude, misshapen forms practically wrapping around him, every movement meant to cause damage.
One stick-figure goblin scrambled up his arm, deliberately wedging itself between his club and his body, allowing another to land a crude but brutal blow directly against his jaw. The force of the blow staggered him, sending a tooth flying as he staggered back, fury blazing in his eyes. These weren’t normal goblins, and they certainly weren’t bound by fear. Each one was like a tool, driven to destroy him without any hesitation or instinct to preserve itself.
Fighting like a cornered beast, the goblin leader bellowed, raising his club to deliver a final, desperate swing. He smashed through three of the stick-figure goblins in one blow, sending splinters flying like shrapnel. But even as they fell, others scrambled up his legs, plunging broken, jagged weapons into his flesh with relentless fervor. They were relentless, empty-eyed warriors, driven by that female goblin's twisted magic to push forward, wave after wave, with no regard for their own destruction.
By now, blood trickled from several deep cuts and punctures across his body. The once-proud goblin leader, who had ruled the tribe with an iron fist, now found himself overwhelmed by the onslaught, his powerful swings slowing, his breaths coming in heavy, ragged gasps. He tore another stick-figure goblin off his arm, smashing it into the ground, but he could feel the sting of fresh wounds as two more dug their makeshift blades into his shoulder and side.
Panting and bloodied, he finally roared in defiance, shoving off the last of the stick figures that clung to him. His rage was a blazing fire in his eyes as he stood amidst the remains of the creatures, his chest heaving. He was injured, exhausted, and battered, yet he still stood—a testament to his strength as an evolved goblin, his body a fortress of muscle and rage.
But Orr, perched atop her stick-figure bear, was ready. Her grin widened as she watched him stumble, his powerful body weakened by the relentless assault. Without hesitation, she screamed, gripping her lance tightly as she drove her mount forward in a charge. Her bear jerked forward, its movements awkward but filled with a strange momentum as it carried her toward the bloodied, panting leader. Her lance, a long, jagged line of crude force, was aimed straight at his chest.
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The leader looked up, realizing his position, his bloodstained fingers tightening around his weapon. With a snarl, he raised his club, readying himself for one last clash. But his muscles, once powerful and unyielding, felt sluggish, weighed down by exhaustion and the sting of a dozen small wounds. He had no time to react as Orr’s lance pierced through his chest, the crude point driving straight through muscle and bone.
A strangled gasp escaped him, his eyes wide as he stumbled back, the life draining from his gaze as he crumpled to the ground. Orr dismounted, stepping up onto his fallen body, her lance raised high in brutal triumph, her face twisted into a victorious snarl.
“Orr new leader! Strongest Shaman! Boss Shaman!” she shouted, her voice carrying a chilling authority. Her stick-figure bear reared up behind her, its mouth open in a silent roar of victory as it mirrored her stance, adding to her imposing figure. She looked down at the gathered goblins, her malicious gaze scanning each face, watching as their bravado faded, leaving only a trembling submission.
One by one, the goblins lowered their heads, instinctively acknowledging her dominance, their cowardly nature unable to resist the power and terror she exuded. Orr could feel it—a rush of triumph, an intoxicating blend of fear and obedience radiating from her new subjects.
With her unusual magic and a fearless ruthlessness, Orr had not just claimed the tribe. She had shown them what true strength and brutality looked like. And as her bear let out another silent, roaring cheer, she knew that this was just the beginning.
“Boss Shaman!
“Leader Orr!”
“Dark Queen!”
…
Orr didn’t hesitate. Standing over the fallen leader’s body, she set to work, her expression twisted with a wild and focused energy. As the new leader of the tribe, she had no time for hesitation or sentiment; his body was now a resource, one that could fuel the power of her magic. She crouched beside his fresh corpse, grabbing one of his splintered ribs and snapping it free with a sickening crack, examining it briefly before deciding it would make the perfect brush. Gripping the bone tightly, she dipped its jagged end into the pooling blood seeping from his wounds, the crimson liquid gleaming darkly in the dim jungle light. It was thick, viscous, and plentiful—more than enough for her purposes. With swift, practiced strokes, she began drawing, using the outline of his fallen form as a grim template for the shapes that would soon join her ranks.
The bone brush scratched along the ground, tracing forms in swift, jagged lines as Orr muttered to herself, a mix of focus and malice in her voice. She painted crude shapes with the blood, each figure roughly the size of a goblin, but each one made stronger, more defined than her earlier creations. Her stick-figure goblins, once shaky and awkward, now took on a darker, more substantial form, reinforced by the life essence of their former leader. Layer by layer, she used the blood to bring out details: thicker limbs, sharper claws, and more defined weapons that glinted faintly in the light.
As she worked, Orr felt her energy flow into each creation, an intense focus binding them to her will, her command. One by one, each goblin emerged from her ritual of blood and bone, until her previous leader’s body was nothing more than a hollow shell, drained of life and resources. When the final creature was completed, Orr rose, her chest heaving from the exertion, and surveyed her new force. Where there had once been a lone leader’s corpse, now a small army of multiple newly-formed goblins stood at attention, faceless and formidable, awaiting her command. Her tribe’s numbers had drastically increased in power and presence, and they watched her with a mixture of awe and fear, knowing full well that this was not the kind of leader they had ever seen before.
With her fresh, bloody force assembled, Orr turned her attention to her next task. The tribe’s food stores were dismal, barely enough to keep them going for another day. Survival depended on immediate action. Wiping the blood from her hands onto her tunic, she swung herself up onto her redrawn bear mount, now reinforced and sturdier, with sharper claws and a more menacing form than before. She grinned as she took her place on the mount’s back, looking over the gathered tribe, her new creations standing at the forefront.
"Listen up!" she barked, her voice ringing out with a fierce authority that demanded attention. "No food is bad! We will hunt for more food. Half of you, stay back and defend the camp. The rest of you, with me!"
Her command was simple but absolute. She divided the tribe efficiently, ensuring that even in her absence, her creations and goblins would protect their home. Orr’s freshly drawn goblins were scattered among her living kin, forming a disciplined phalanx as they moved through the jungle, with Orr and her bear leading the charge. The sight was both chilling and awe-inspiring, a strange, silent army marching with purpose.