In the dunes of sand that buffeted and challenged the supremacy of the earthen hills that attempted to overtake the desert of dust with green life, lay a force of creatures seeking to carve out and hold a piece of land outside the nearby trade and travel hub of Barg’s Refuge. The town was located along the border of the Gariemah Dunes, and the green hills supported by the Green Vein River. It also had a satellite harbor town located at junction from the Green Vein and Mother’s Artery. As well as held control over the major crossing bridge, shared with the Cane Dukedom across the Vein. The city state was the center of monstrous trade with the soft folk. Creating less a melting pot, and more a drink made by throwing a dozen different beverages together and somehow discovering a palatable liquid.
In one of the many nameless dunes that stretch across the land, was one formed centuries ago by clever dwarves and gnomes, a shell of metal and stone, piled high with sand. A domicile of darkness and cool that was such an envy in these lands. The reason for this structure’s abandonment is not known, nor important to its current occupants. Only that it was hidden and habitable. Inside this dark structure, lit by dim moss growing along the corners of chambers, were a group of adolescent creatures and one elderly goblin.
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Glora the Brave, Glora the Crazed, Glora the Gunman, Glora, was a small, sickly green skinned goblin. Their face hidden under the brim of a hat wider than its shoulders. A modified witch’s hat, top cut and shaped like a fedora to rest poorly on their child sized skull. It bobbed in time to an unheard, but clearly scattered and inconsistent beat. The goblin was bent over a desk made for its size, metal glistening and reflecting the hanging moss’s light as the creature held each piece of metal up. Strewn across the desk was a whirlwind scattering of various tools, most made of mundane metals. With the few items of clear value, possessing the soft glow and stench of enchanted material. The desk held no order to anyone but its helmsman. From the ceiling dangled a finely woven length of moss that provided a bright light just overhead of the desk. Casting the rest of the room, consisting of barely lit boxes used to store anything of conceivably decent monetary value, in a haunting glow of light.
The soft, slightly gold tinted light bounced around the room. But the creature’s voice echoed the most. They were muttering and whispering words in their native tongue, tainted by the dialect of fair elven lyrics. Their voice was one scared by strain, hollow and raspy. A voice marred by decades of use finally wearing it down to bareness. It would not surprise the owner if their voice vanished, never to return after their next rest.
In its tiny hand was a grooved cylinder with eight holes carved through it. It’s black, but cataract painted eyes moved along it, followed by a dexterous finger.
“No, no, no mistake, yes, yes’is, no chip, no heat warp.” It pushed a long, pointed nail into the holes, pulling it back out and licking the lubricant oil that had flowed onto it. “Sea folk, shellfish oil. Tanny nicked some nice’se oil, ain’t she?”
The cylinder, now fully inspected, was lain down, not on a dirt and soot coated rag, but a fine, if worn, white silk cloth. Beside it were the required rods and tools meant to properly clean the instrument. Additionally, was the remainder of the contraption the elderly goblin was examining. A dark, blued metal frame. One treated with a level of care on par to a newborn as they meticulously reassembled the marvel. An eight-cartridge revolver, that when returned to its intended whole, required both of their shaky hands to hold.
“Oh you, I told ya’se would look pertty in that new grip,” They spoke to their sharply dressed hunk of metal. “You’se is gonna shoot like our dreams again, once those lazy chil’re finish setting up the new targ's fer us.”
The elder raised an arm and slid, with care, the weapon into a well-worn holster under its robe. Turning to a corner, it pulled from a cloth pouch a sphere, a ball barring, and without a pause, shot it at the wall, bouncing it off and down to hit a crouched gnome in the side of the head, which further flew to strike their counterpart, a halfling of similar size and age in the temple.
“Ah! Granny Glora! We just were watchin’! Ya didn’t have ta shoot us like a rat in the storerooms.” The gnome rubbed her head, feeling the beginning of a knot form as she spoke, defending her blatant disrespect of their caretaker’s house rules. Earning them another ball to the forehead.
The halfling was tall for her young age, just a yard and a few extra inches. Her frame was less that of a lythe teenager, and more a stout, heavier frame that made her look more like dwarf than her other halfling. Fair black hair, used to the comfort of a monthly wash with decent soap, was tied up into a small bun. Her head was hurt from the shot, but her stance was not shaken.
The gnome, the adopted sibling of the halfling, did not follow his sister’s foolishness, earning an appreciative look from the goblin. His frame was much smaller than his companion’s, at just a few inches shy of a yard. He had gangly proportions unusual for his race. Long arms and legs compared to his torso, but none of the height or dexterity needed to keep him from tipping back and against the wall when he was struck.
The siblings were both wearing matching colored trousers and tunics, a dirty, sandy brown that fit well against the clay walls of the town they had returned from.
When the gnome boy next spoke, his soft, but prim and proper tone was very different, even unfitting to the rough location.
“We apologize Grandpa Glora. Tanny was bragging about the oil she got you, a fancy bottle from a ship from the Elemental Isles. When we were in the market, we saw their wagons and heard their criers. They brought many ingredients that could help your experiments.”
The deft boy pulled from his pocket a handwritten list of elemental reagents he had heard or seen while the two orphans were tasked with finding marks for their senior sister.
The two waited as their elder held and examined the paper. They had been under the goblin’s care for months, but they still felt uncomfortable when addressing them. The gunslinger refused to acknowledge their, or anyone’s, attempts to call them by a gendered term like mother or father. They did not correct anyone when they switched between the two, or actively tried to deduce their gender. The goblin was never offended at those attempts, or frustrated. The only reaction they showed was when someone finally found a term they wanted to use consistently.
The boy felt their caretaker was much harsher, more demanding than his sister did. She viewed the elder as the kind but strict grandmother she had been taken from so many years ago. The other children each had their own name or term for the caretaker, which was a source of confusion to them and others. But the group did not care, because their caretaker did not care.
With the list in hand, the goblin glanced across it, taking note of some interesting, but too expensive goods they could get.
“You’se did good boy. Girl, did you do you’se trainin’? Or is Dag’um gonna need to train you’se for a week again’se?” The elder looked down upon their charge, their newest recruits. “I didn't bring you’se into this organization to eat me'se out of house and home. I brought you’se from the slavers to be'se useful.”
The halfling girl looked around, sheepish and concerned, as if Dag could pop his hyena-like head from any corner and drag her off with his hideous laughs to his torturous training again.
“N-No, I means, Yes ma’am. I did my exercises. I means, no, I-I don’t need Dag’s trainin’. We’ve been preparin’ right, like you saids. Our sixth month ends next week. And, and we wills be ready to earn our names in the group. Just like Tanny, Dag, and Spoke have.”
The elder watched the halfling, shift from fear in her words and stance, to the resolute stance of a protector or guardian warrior for the gnome she stepped up to stand before unconsciously. A crooked, sharp and shattered tooth smile broke their lips.
“You’se will earn your’se first names, or you’se will remain child grunts for us until you’se do. As is our’se custom, as is our’se creed, in the Gloris Clan Family. And you’se two will be introduced to our family’s true business.”
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The two children, the boy a simple 14, the girl a boisterous 16, were only to their caretaker’s chest. Their elder, a staggering four and a half feet, was staring down at them with an intensity that caused both to shiver in fear. Not for themselves, as Glora, though harsh and rough, was not cruel. They were afraid of the possibility of accomplishing the goal, and of possible failure.
“We... We thank you, Papa Glora...” The boy bowed his head low, the girl following suit before he spoke again. “We do not... We can not thank you enough for the opportunities your kindness has bestowed upon us.”
The goblin stared down at them, not speaking as they examined each figure. Eyes of milk, filled with chunks of the dark unknowable, judged their reactions, their stances as moments passed, and their shakes subsided, their backs stiffened, their fists tightened.
“You’se are my youngest and newest collectables. You’se are not stupid. You’se are going to pass my'se trials. And I'se await to learn the names you’se earn.”
The thin hands, scared and marred, tiny to any beings larger than the current company, came up to rest upon the two’s heads. Patting them with gentle affection.
“You’se both are intelligent. I’se knew that from the moment I and Tanny caught you’se trying to escape you'se cages in the slave caravans.” The echos of gravel and sand poured from their smiling and laughing face. “Eighteen months have come and gone. And it has been the Mother’s Blessing that you’se joined our family. Even if She would not approve of my’se... behavior.”
The two children nodded as they straightened, a look of surprised pride across their round, puggy faces. The Mother did not approve of the crime ring Glora was forming. Most gods would not. But She could appreciate that the group formed was more than just one of opportunity and greed.
“We- We try Mama Glora. Yer trainin’ is hard,” the girl replied with a grimice. “But it is needed... We didn’ know nothin’ from our old homes.” She looked at the boy, who looked away with a blush, and a posh, defensive mumble. “We didn’ know how to fight, ‘r protec’ ourselves. We c’n cook, build, craf’ a lil’, and we know how to use mana! We wouldn’ be able to’se do that without ya...”
Glora’s smile shifted to a warmer, softer kind. Stepping forward, they pulled the children into their chest for a hug. A creaking, awkward, and uncomfortable for everyone, hug. A hug that reminded the children that this goblin, though kind and old, was armed from toe to tooth, judging by the number of hard and clattering things they felt through the worn hide chest plate.
They remained quiet for a long moment, enjoying the closeness before a cough interrupted their moment. The shadows opened to display to the group a tall, thin frame. Limbs of coiled wire covered in a short, patchy pattern of fur, a head of human with elongated features like a cat’s. Wrapped in minimal, tan colored strips of cloth, the predator crossed its arms to observe with a quiet amusement the shift in faces of the two children from calm peace to shock and fear, then blushing shame when their elder refused to let them wiggle free before they were satisfied and turned to meet their much taller daughter.
“Tanny, did you’se find Dag’um? Was he’se drunk again?” Their wrinkled face shadowed under the brim with their question. Of course, the anger was not directed at the five-foot tabaxi.
“Yess, he wass in the Lantern Disstrict again,” Tanny replied with a nod. Her voice had a harsh hiss to it, less like a snake or cat and more like the dry winds driving over dunes. “He losst hiss pouch again.”
“Of course’um...” Glora shook their head solmnly. “Is he'se in the Silence Room?”
Tanny returns a nod for her answer, leaving the elder to sigh and walk out the room with a wave to their children, too irritated to trust their tongue not to lash out on the innocent.
“Sister Tanny?” The boy followed the back of the old goblin as the sense of their pressence seemed to grow to fill the entire dark cavern. “Did, Brother Dag really loose it all?” His answer was a nod. “Why must Brother be so foolish?...’
Tanny snorted, a sound that echoed, breaking the tenson of fear left by the departure of their figurehead.
“Dag iss... Iss a sspoiled boy. He learned to control the body so well, hiss emotional control ssuffered.” She spoke like an elder sister, not harsh or insulting the gnoll they all knew was going to experience a living hell shortly. “They will remember thiss lessson for a time. Hopefully...”
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The cold stone pressed up against the course fur mashed against it under the weight of a seven foot tall, hunched over mass of tough, leathery skin and muscles under a layer of patchy and spot covered fur the color of browned sand. The outer layer of clothing was simply a band of cloth and a kilt of rough leather a similar color to their own fur and skin. The creature, a gnoll of dessert origins, distinguishable by the fur's color and pattern, lay in a haze that was slowly clearing up. The brown of their eyes visible in the soft glow of the single strip of glow moss allowed to grow in the room.
Dag, the female gnoll, was sleeping in her haze one moment, and was then up, spinning through the room in a fluid roll and handstand, to a fighting stance in the span of two heart beats. Her eyes narrowed in sudden adrenalin and anger as she stared at the empty room in front of her.
“Spoke, end your spells. Heheheuh. Before I kick your skull off, heheheuh.” The hyena hybrid spoke her words in a harsh, guttural tone.
Her tongue was wide and struggled against slipping into a lisp she had since she was a pup, or anyone of her kind had when speaking the common tongue. Her teeth clacked together slightly when she gave her warning sound of danger, fear or nervousness. She knew it was exactly what her brother wanted as she watched the corner of the room shimmer like the heat rising from the dunes at high noon.
She saw the purposefully dramatic reveal of the goblin boy. No, man. She must remember he was of age for his people now in his eighth year in the care of their shared adoptive parent. She had known Spoke his whole life, her sister Tanny and her assisted their patriarch in raising the goblin baby to this point. It was a small creature both for its race and age. It was barely two and a half feet tall. So small even toddler clothing was usually too large for it. His grey skin was like that of stone which littered riverbeds, but much lighter. More like that liquid stone used to construct buildings that gnomes and dwarves love to use for cheap materials. Their eyes were a dark navy blue that didn’t reflect in the moon or sunlight. The small boy had a leather sash that held a variety of tiny instruments he could use. All made of metal and thin wood, giving a uniquely tinny quality that all the small folk seemed to love.
The goblin boy was glaring at her, a look of anger and disappointment in his eyes that mirrored his older sister’s when she found Dag laying drunk in a gutter and would be a pale imitation of the look their leader would hold when they arrived shortly.
“I am not afraid of you Dag. I can shift into the shadows and darkness faster than your fists can fly out and reach me.” His voice was the natural one he developed as he got older, a slow drawl, of solid, simple speech.
Dag preferred it when her brother spoke this way. So different and real to the bouncy, almost jovially polite farce he put on to earn coins in taverns and inns. Her mind flashed to the many nights she, Tanny and Spoke would work a tavern together. Pickpocketing, mugging, swindling, and scamming the folks there for enough food for a week or two. Never too much, like Matriarch taught them. Never be too greedy, or you will soon lose it all. She was brought back to reality when he spoke again.
“Tanny was angry with you brother. Is angry. We all are.” His eyelids narrowed, the blue underneath did not flash like a blade, but it stabbed through her like one either way. “You wasted your fight winnings on women, men and garbage again. That was meant to buy us crafting tools for the youngest siblings!” His eyes shot open again, his short legs taking two steps closer to his much larger sibling. “They can’t earn a name, if they can’t prove they deserve it. Youngest brother is a magic tinkerer at heart. Youngest sister needs her weaver tools replaced if she is to pay for her first armor set!”
His voice grew louder, higher pitched. Sounding like a screech before his ears and head twitch, tilting towards the hall, past the solitary cell Dag had been placed in. Both of their hearts skipped a beat, sweat trickled down their spines as the smooth, almost musical twirl of a revolver’s cylinder spun, and then clicking closed with a flick.
“Moth-mother is coming. I will miss you my tallest brother.” Spoke spoke in a clipped, speedy tone, before his image vanished with the strum of a mouth harp. No dramatic shimmers or effects, only full retreat.
Dag did not blame or chide her brother. She and Tanny had acted similarly when Spoke returned one night, after bragging he had convinced a merchant’s daughter to take him to her bed under her skirts. You did not put yourself in the path of a storm if it was too late to save the people in its path. Or when you made your parent so angry that the use of violence was the only truly useful way to teach their child a lesson. Like the one Dag had earned this day.
The massive gnoll was no weakling. She was a regular pit fighter, winner of low-level tournaments in basements, and once in a cage on the mayor’s lawn. Glora had raised her to be strong, fearless, and to never cower, be it in the face of armies, gods, or your rightfully furious mother.
The solid slab of steel that was the holding cell’s door was blasted open and slammed against the wall, barely remaining in its place on bent hinges, after the echo of a giant clapping two metal orbs together. The light of blue and white force magic blended and bent around the seams in the door, leaving behind a glow, like the metal was heating and ready to melt into a pool. Beyond the now vacant doorway, stood the figure of a shadow and smoke cloaked goblin. Their eyes a soup of white and black focused on the source of their ire. In their hand was held a smoking revolver, pulsing with the light of force magic from a breaching charge round. The boney fingers that gripped it were wrapped in a black silk glove, held unwavering in the air, despite the tremendous force from the gun’s recoil.
The glove pulsed with a silver light, and the gun was moved, not to aim at the gnoll standing with her back to the wall, now in a military rest. But at the invisible form that escaped past them and down the hall. The goblin leader’s eyes did not track their son’s form as it retreated, but remained locked on their other son’s, their other daughter’s brown eyes.
“Dag’um, you’se has one min’it ‘fore I remind you’se who’se taught ya to swing ya fists an’ claws.”