Duval Estate.
Morty hovered over the shoulder of the head butler as he flipped through page after page of employee records, the head butler muttering the names as he did so.
"Charles Swanson, Position of Head Butler. Abigail Lee, Position of Maid. Abigail Finch, Position of Maid. Martin Porter, Position of Chef."
"You don't need to read them out loud." Morty stated with a hint of irritation.
"Perhaps they may jog some memories about Miss Devens?" The head butler asked as he continued to flip through the records.
"The only thing they jog is how much they hated me and how much I loathed them." Morty hissed.
"Why did the staff treat you so, Master? You were a member of the household."
Morty snorted derisively.
"Turns out just because your a servant doesn't mean you're immune from acting like your better than others. My father hated and resented me and it bled into the staff. They didn't care that I was a part of the household, they only cared that my father didn't want me and that was good enough for them."
Morty pointed a finger to the record of an elderly lady with a permanent scowl in her photo.
"That was my tutor. She was meant to instill within me a degree of respect and appreciation for the upper gentry, i.e. my father. Old bitch sure did enjoy using that damn oak cane of hers to reinforce her teachings."
Morty snorted again.
"Sure didn't see me cry when she croaked."
"Oh? Is she buried on the estate? Should I have her exhumed?"
"No. They were just servants. Their bodies were either sent to their families or interred in the town's cemetery if no next of kin was found. The only ones buried here are my family." Morty stated.
The estate did have a private plot reserved for members of the family. They used to have an entire mausoleum back in New Orleans that held their dead from back when it was still ruled by France. But since they moved up here to West Virginia they've only had a small private plot on the east end of the estate. The only person that occupied it was his mother, and now his grandfather.
But not his father. The bastard can rot in the ditch he was rolled into for all Morty cared, funerary rites and respect for the dead be damned. He didn't deserve any form of care or respect as far as Morty was concerned.
It had been some time since he visited them though, Morty thought. The last time was when he buried his grandfather. He rarely did so before then either. The only thing remaining of his mother was her room, which his father allowed to be locked and shut away, and her grave. Both of which Morty found painful to even consider visiting.
But those were feelings for another day, Morty thought as the head butler stopped on a record of a woman in her late 30s early 40s with a happy smile in her photo. The name on the record read Carol Devens. Morty let out a frustrated sigh.
"Well shit."
"What should we do, Master?" The head butler asked.
"Think the hayseed will accept the fact that she's been turned into goblin biomass and leave peacefully?"
"I doubt it, Master."
"Then we'll have to come up with something else. Something that will get not just him but others that might show up off our backs."
"Oh? Do you have a plan?"
"I... am open to ideas." Morty said. His first thought was just to have the dirt farmer silenced. Either with money or permanently. But that was how he got into this mess in the first place so he'll have to hold off on just having the guy whacked.
Though having his new... associate, do the job wasn't entirely off the list. It still wouldn't fix the problem. Not like he could say they all went for a hike and they ran afoul of their local Appalachian Triangle. Where people, particularly hikers, just vanished. He doubt most of the people that were formerly in his family's employ were avid hikers, or their family's for that matter.
The head butler spoke up.
"We will figure something out, Master. You have enough on your plate as is."
Morty nodded, but he wasn't happy about it. This wasn't exactly something he could afford to just wash his hands of. But the head butler seemed insistent.
"You go back to managing the mine, Master. Let me worry about organizing the fair and this little... issue."
Morty looked down at the head butler.
"Really? I mean I can organize the fair-"
"As I said, Master. You have enough to worry about. I and the staff will be more than capable of handling it." The head butler insisted.
He never though he'd actually say or even think it, but he kinda wanted to organize the fair. But he was right. Dealing with the mining and land clearing is already a headache he only just started to get settled. Then there were the matters of transport and possible export of materials now that he has a source of wealth again.
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Morty nodded.
"Well then. I guess I'll you to it."
"Gerard."
Morty paused as he went to turn away.
"What?"
"Gerard. I understand that few besides the Colonel have names that you personally address them by. And even that is more a title of office than a proper name. As the one that is both representative of the upper class of goblins of this estate as well as managing some of your affairs, I believe it appropriate to be called by something more than simply "The Head Butler". Don't you think?"
"I... guess so. Well then, I'll leave matters of the hayseed and the fair in your hands... Gerard." Morty said with a nod.
Which the newly Christened Gerard returned and turned to resume his work as Morty left, the ever present sisters following close behind. Gerard wasn't religious by any means. Few goblins were even before their arrival to this world. Most paid little more than lip service when they cared to and even then it was usually as an added means to keep goblin clans and tribes in line around some goblin spellcaster. However, his people have grown rather... enlightened, as of late. He noted as he recalled several of the noble goblins talking about setting up a church somewhere on the estate.
While he himself did not care for it, it would go a long ways in maintaining his position if he were to actually partake in their little baptisms. At the very least it will get them off his back so he can focus on his actual duties. Like overseeing the staff now that they had free reign among the estate again thanks to the rather heavy-handed approach Mortimer had employed against the slobbish nobility.
Not that he would critic it. They were rather loathsome and a firm hand would do them some good, Gerard thought. There were also the matters of this new "hayseed" as Mortimer had called him. This Marc Devens, would need to be dealt with carefully if this household wished to be rid of him and others of his ilk for the foreseeable future.
Then the matter with the fair. With the acquisition of iron it now allowed the various fledgling goblin artisans materials in which to work with, and would allow them to show to the people of the town that they weren't some slavering creatures that lurked in the shadows and alleyways. Or of the brutish soldiery like the hobgoblin "Red Caps".
No, the town, and Master Mortimer, will see that the goblins can be more than just expendable labor. Fit for nothing else than meatshields. Though most will be little more than that by nothing more than their own nature. Case in point the dragues. The bottom of the barrel of goblin society. The worst that even they have to offer. Back when the tribe was little more than your run of the mill goblins they didn't exist.
But now a hierarchy has formed among the goblins themselves. Those that were more inclined to serve to survive have been pushed, even biologically, to the bottom rung of the ladder so to speak. He figured it would be a waste of time and energy to try and get a drague to become just a below average goblin. Even if such a thing was possible, who among them would want to? They were the lower caste of this new goblin society, why would any goblin WANT to change that? It was practically uplifting a potential rival that had little, if any, sense of loyalty to you and just waiting to be stabbed in the back at the first opportunity!
But the noble goblins? They wouldn't end up like them. They had refined and enlightened minds that would see them succeed and prosper in this new world for many years and generations to come! Especially if Master Mortimer continues to partake in some of the maids. Perhaps they could even be heads of the household one day, Gerard thought. Even if there were a couple of half-ogres gestating within the sisters, what would be born by his dalliance with the goblin maid would arrive sooner. Which by the laws of this world and this land, would make it de facto the next in line of the estate.
"All the better anyway. Ogres don't have the mental capacity for such matters. Even half-ogres would have little improvement" Gerard said to himself.
If they did then there would be a kingdom of ogres, or something more than just the scattered ogre tribes that lived little better than savage animals if his knowledge of the ogres from before they arrived to this world was correct. Such a brutish nature was little better than the hobgoblins, Gerard thought. Even when being surrounded by such knowledge and culture did they continue in the brutish and savage living as they had before. No, matters of statesmanship should be left to those with the mind and temperament for it. Like himself and the rest of his more refined kin.
Speaking of refined, Gerard thought as he pulled out a piece of paper and a pen. With the acquisition of iron they would begin to accumulate wealth as well as status of having a close and readily accessible resource. Something that the dwarves would be most interested in. A simple transaction would be easy to facilitate. Iron for money. Perhaps even the prospect of being sponsors to the fair would rouse their interest enough to overlook the fact that they would primarily be dealing with a goblin. Even one as enlightened as he.
-----
Red Cap Barracks.
The Colonel walked along the line of "trogs" as they were called. Eight beasts that were big, strong, could regenerate wounds, can walk in pure sunlight unlike their former troll selves, and were dumber than rock. Sure their very presence had been a boon against warding off the worst of violent offenses against them by either the local criminals that they have clashed with more than once, or even the ferals that still infested the town despite his best efforts to cull their nests.
The problem? They were undisciplined and could barely follow the simplest of orders. Even the line they were in was rough and not at all straight and they regularly looked away, wandered off, or were otherwise distracted in someway.
The Colonel rapped his cudgel against the protruding belly of a trog to get its attention. The tough flesh barely jiggled and earned the Colonel little more than a dumb confused expression on the trog's face at the harsh action.
"Listen up you lot! You are under the command of Red Caps now and you will act like it!"
Despite his barking the trogs still seemed to wander and look away as their peabrains got quickly occupied by something different. Either by a fly buzzing around them, attracted to their trollish stink that they retained despite taking a dip in a genepool, or just picking their noses with yellowed claws.
Even the usual harsh discipline of the Red Caps had little effect on them. Beatings were easily shrugged off or even ignored by their tough hides. Yelling orders and insults went right over their dimwitted heads.
Even the dragues weren't this bad, The Colonel thought. Yell at them enough and they'll do as their told without a second thought and at least try to do it right for fear of beatings. But these creatures? Anything more than standing around and looking intimidating was beyond their mental capacity, what little they had. Yet even that simple task seemed to be some great undertaking as they would regularly wander off from their assigned posts.
They've had to practically tie them to buildings or even the road just to keep them from doing so! Yet even that has had mix results, The Colonel thought as he recalled a trog chasing a butterfly, a chunk of cement pavement not far behind. Scared the holy hell out of the townsfolk, and caused them nothing but headaches and embarrassment as they tried to rein in the trog back to its post. With a lot more rope and chains than before.
They've freed him up from running around taking care of petty criminals, violent thugs, and feral attacks. But the time has been taken over by just keeping them from causing a panic as they galavant off after a butterfly or a cat!
He's been unable to see Molly of late. Both because he's been dealing with wayward trogs and criminals, and because she's been at the hospital looking after some friend of hers. He still doesn't know who it is, and he hasn't had the chance to do so.
But he will. Hopefully. Once he's gotten these trogs to at least stand still long enough then he can have a free moment to not worry about them to go and see her and continue his courtship proper. He slammed his club against the belly of the nearest trog to get its attention, for about the span of a tenth of a second.
"I am the Colonel. YOUR Colonel now! I will see to it that you miserable lot are fit to fight and serve in the General's army!"
One of the trogs scratched its head.
"Kern-el?"
"That's right trog! Colonel! And I will make sure you dimwits are fully functioning members of the General's armed forces!"
"Jen-roll?" Another trog asked as it went cross eyed in thought.
The Colonel groaned. About the only thing they've been able to do was teach them to throw the grease grenades they have BEFORE they explode. But even that took FAR too much time and thought before it finally clicked in their dumb peanut brains. You'd think after losing a hand and some flesh to burning grease a dozen times they'd learn. But no. Even pain and loss of limb seemed too much thought process for them.
He also found that keeping them apart seemed to keep them from suffering from collective stupidity. For instance, one trog to one Red Cap. Yet another problem was the fact that they were so big and few in number that they would still manage to find one another when they wandered off that any progress made with them was undone within a matter of seconds as they tried, and failed, to tell one another about what they've seen or have.
Hours of training would go up in smoke because one of them found a funny shaped rock and use all of its half a braincell to show its friends. Then they would be right back to square one again. The Colonel wasn't even sure why he had them formed together. Not like it would do anything. He'd bet his rations that everything he's said and done would be forgotten in the next breath they took.
"Kit-eh?" A trog asked dumbly.
"NO! Colonel!"
"Kit-eh!" The trog repeated and pointed a large finger to where a small calico cat sat nearby and watched them all.
"Oh no." One of the Red Caps uttered before the gathered trogs began to cheerfully chase after the cat.
The cat screeched and ran, with the trogs in hot pursuit as they went right through the glass front of the shop-turned-barracks. Grunts and Red Caps both hurried after in an effort to subdue the runaway trogs. Except for the Colonel who remained where he stood and took a exhausted breath before following after. Slowly. He wasn't in a hurry to partake in trog wrangling again. Next time, he'll have them separate, in a locked room and no windows. Just the trog and a Red Cap officer. Maybe then they'll be able to get SOMETHING to stick in their dumb brains. Or whatever it was that they used to think with.