Glora stood, watching the Mayor as she slipped through the rubble in silence to approach the gathering. The battle for the warehouse had been over for nearly half an hour when the druids finally approached.
But the look of desperation that clung to her face was wiped away in the moments leading up to her reveal.
Very few things could match the goblin’s perception of their surroundings, especially after they got their hands on their “third eye,” a magical ring that replaced the failing sight they had as their cataracts worsened.
Only Tanny, at her absolute peak performance, had a chance to slip into their surroundings and go unnoticed. And a Drow that hadn’t needed to practice their skills in over a century had little chance of that, even with magical assistance.
The clan head remembered the discussion they had with the mayor, both when they first came to reside permanently in the city some two decades ago, and when they had lent a hand in killing the filth elemental that spawned a few decades before that too.
She was always the perfect image of a Drow politician. Only truly insane things would rattle her. But knowing her “boss,” there would need to be some danger for the deal that they had made to be accepted both by the refuge and the grove.
When the goblin learned that the buyer of the warehouse would truly be the Green Weavers, they knew they had to take the chance. Very few beings were able to or willing to freely make an oath to their power. An oath that they could not break.
An oath of silence or an oath of loyalty without being bound by power was possible and very much respected. But the goblin knew oaths or intent could be bent to achieve things that the oath taker convinced themselves was worth the cause. Money, or the resources that the oath was about, usually was a reason.
But for Glora, the location of their home, the refuge for the broken and cast outs they had pulled under their wing, the replacement for a tribe who’s name will never be uttered on this plane of reality, would never be risked.
They did not care how “unethical” torture training was. Did not care for morality and its spewers who would just as quickly discard it when it suited them. The children of the clan consented to the training, or to the oath to their power for silence on the clan base’s location.
Glora was surprised both the first time the mayor agreed that the druids would consent to the agreement for the oaths, and even more so the second time, in front of the druid representing her old home.
“The Arch Druid accepted the price.” The tall, dark elf woman spoke. Her authority oozing with her sultry voice. “And has requested me to ensure it is fulfilled. Only five druids need to make the oath, but they will carry it out. A group that will be coming in around three days' time will be making the oath. They are specialized in such and will be the least likely to ever have to uphold the oath to any degree of scrutiny.”
The two other Drow were both dumb struck and slightly frightened or cowed by the Mayor. She was someone no longer of the Cult or Grove, and yet had enough trust to speak with and for the Arch Druid. Who the two Drow had only met when their circle raising was officially celebrated at the quarterly gatherings.
“Alright,” Donnas agreed after a moment. “If this term was already accepted, we will concede to it for now. But why are you here now?”
“I came,” Yel continued,” Because you Weavers have trouble. And another target tonight.”
Everyone, Glora included, stiffened. None of them were without wounds or expended powers that day. And the urgency of the Mayor’s voice was clear.
“Three scouts are making their way to the surface of the sewers to attempt to bring me a message of diplomatic request. They are coming to request a formal alliance with the Refuge, or to threaten us into agreement.” Yel ended their announcement with a flourishing wave of her cloak.
“You, now?!” Donnas exclaimed, his fists tightening. But he closed his eyes and shook his head, shaking the rage that bloomed in his heart. “The Refuge told you, yes?” He waited for her nod of confirmation before growling. “Then, our job has begun. We expected that to take another week, or perhaps a month… But no matter. Glora, your terms are accepted. I hope you can excuse us rushing to accomplish our mission here.”
The elderly goblin chuckled softly before waving the Drow off. Not responding verbally, seeing no need to waste their time more. And they flipped back down on the floor beside their children.
The Drow called in their reinforcements and ordered the rangers assisting with the cleanup to follow them into the sewers. They had an hour to find and kill the envoy before the reaches the Mayor’s offices.
When the warehouse was quiet again, Glora looked to their children who all seemed to be digesting the news and sudden spike in violence and intrigue.
“Alrighty children… I’se think that’s enough for us’se today.” The green elder reached into their pocket and withdrew an extending walking cane. “The Younglings must be worried ‘bout us’se by nows.”
With a synchronized blink, all three elder siblings proceeded to groan. Knowing that their softest and cuddliest siblings would indeed be worried about them. Since this entire clown show was so sudden.
“Well, hehe, at least they’ll probably have supper for us.” The gnoll spoke, rubbing their stomach as it growled in impatience with its owner.
“Oh Madra… They alssso went on a job today. After they fixed the door, I told them to earn sssome coin…” Tanny groaned as they slid their rifle back into their dark subspace.
“But Lil’ sis sure can bake. Ma, did we get that order of fire boar today?” Spoke asked, his gaze staring off into the distance, imagining the meal that must be waiting for them.
“Depends on if the younglings picked it up or not.” Glora shrugged as the group started to make their way towards the edge of the city. Following the central road for speed and ease.
They did not care anymore about the Drow, or their civil war and other nonsense. They had either a meal to get to, or a meal to make. And dark elf foolishness could wait a few days
****************************
The entrance to the compound of the Glora Clan was somewhere to the southeast of the city. A half hour walk for most normal or ordinary beings. But any who had tried and succeeded in following them to the small sand dunes where the entrance was buried under a sheet camouflaged to mimic and then covered to be buried under the sand around it.
Underneath the sheet sat a pair of doors made from an unidentified alloy of stone and metal. It held a dark grey tone and color but cut off all sound from escaping it. The magical sheet would unroll with a proper magical phrase, but the doors could be freely opened from the outside. But required a phrase to leave it.
The doors would then open into a small ten by ten room of the same material as the door. With places for either glowing gems or moss to sit and lighten the room.
Across from the door was a hallway. A simple, lighted hall that appeared to be filled will turns, dead ends, illusions and traps. Yet was completely straight. Most who entered and were not of the clan, would try and escape. Only to find they could not. And would either brave the hall or be slaughtered like the cornered rats they were.
Any who entered the hallway would never return from it. For a number of reasons. But the main one being that the building didn’t want them to.
The hallway that connected the entrance room and the remainder of the compound, were not connected at the end, in the normal, physical sense. The hallway’s ending did lead to the compound. But the space within the “hallway” was not the same space as the material plane.
The dwarves and gnomes who created the compound sought to do something new and insane. They sought to, and succeeded in, ripping a piece of chaotic space and time from the void that divides the realms, and attaching it to the material plane, creating an artificial gate from one location to another. Without the use of teleportation or space manipulation magics.
This marvel would be something along the lines of an artificial or natural gate from one realm to another. Like to any of the elemental planes or Feywild or even the realms of the divine. But connected two points in the material.
The end point of the hallway was still somewhere within a hundred or so miles of the entrance. But buried somewhere under a dune in an area that rivaled the size of many countries or even the city state of Barg’s Refuge.
This magical advancement was something that led to the fall of that dwarven and gnomish age. And was of equal value to any country or group today. But it was in the hands of a group of criminals and amounted to a simple security feature. Not the massive find of magical knowledge and study that it could be.
But to the goblin who rediscovered it, and the clan they thought to enter and leave the hall, it was their home and their greatest defensive. A path through the unending chaos of space would kill any who entered it without the knowledge to pass through it properly. A path, a guide that became the badge of honor in the clan, and one of their first true challenges in proving themselves and their skill.
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
****************************
The Lad and Lass labored over the burning stove and freezing ice box to prepare a victory meal for their family.
Three adult flame boars had been slaughtered for the clan, and half that meat would go into the meal for that night.
Fried, seared, roasted, the meat was cooked and prepared with love and glee. The injuries the two younglings faced in their battle were minor compared to their clan head and eldest brother. Both of which in the end were close to collapsing and requiring medical and magical attention.
So, they wished to alleviate their discomfort with full bellies. The Lad worked with sugar, cream and milk to create a cold, creamy treat, while the lass spent her talents on the stove and the roaring fire it required. Legs of cooked meat, steaks seasoned with berries, spices and salt, a broth of pork fat and bacon, and fried chunks of meat for the varied tastes of their elder rough skins.
They had rushed home on the silver board, leaving with only their gear and a large sack of coins for the items they sold to the hedge witch Agatha.
With nearly two hours of cooking done, and with everything winding down, the two teenagers heard steps traveling through chaotic space and then the crossing of steps across the stone of their compound’s floor.
“Oh, by Madra’s Massive and Magnificent Mounds of Milk…” The rural and natural speaking voice of their goblin brother spoke up. The chorus of sniffs and sighs of agreement as he continued. “Ma truly knows how to adopt, doesn’t she?”
“While when ssshe picked you up, the only sssmell you made had the entire compound unlivable for daysss.” Tanny added as the group carried on down the hall and around into the dining hall and kitchen.
Glora and Dag didn’t say anything as the two others bickered. They all came into the large hall with grins holding back droll to see the two small and youngest of the clan wiping away oil and soot from their faces and hands in their towels and aprons.
“You’se did well children.” Glora was the first of the group to speak as they looked over the table laid out with food and drink. “But you’se didn’t make this just because, now did you’se?” They asked with a bit of suspicion, but not anger in their voice.
“No, no, we, ahem, we made this because Agatha insisted, she showed us what our “crazed family” was doing after we finished our job for the day.” The gnomish lad spoke up first. His more respectful tone soothed the goblin the more they had come to realize over their time living in the clan. “We saw… we saw the battles. Through the eyes of her familiars and scrying spell. And assumed, you all would appreciate the food and chance to rest.”
The two children bowed deeply and respectfully to their elders. They had seen and experienced how much their “siblings” out class them in sparring before. But they never had the opportunity to witness what made the Glora Clan something so feared in the Refuge. Rumors and tales did not do them justice. Witnessing the battles barely did so.
Their bows were met with a moment of silence before there was a grunt and the two were pulled into a hug by their clan head. And then wrapped further by the other three pairs of arms.
None of the clan spoke for the time of the embrace. Each member of the clan thinking of similar and different things.
Be it the gratitude of those older and wiser who took them in in the time of most need.
Or the gratitude for “younger siblings” who cared about them.
Or the pride in displaying themselves and their power or deeds to those who they had watched and guided in the martial and skill paths.
Or a sense of warmth once feared to be lost. The ancient dream of a goblin to one day create a safe home, a safe tribe for their own spawn and runts to live in. To raise a small clan and pass on their knowledge to a new generation. A dream which had felt dead for nearly five decades… now coming to reality before their aging and failing eyes.
****************************
Tanny sat to the left of her mother, stripping meat from a leg of boar as she listened to her youngest siblings speak and regale the clan with their own battle in the sewers that day.
For the tabaxi, she was not surprised by their clan head’s knowledge of the battle. But did delight in the surprise at the weight and heft of the sack of coins sitting on the goblin’s chair when they sat down to the feast. Glora was not an omnipotent being, but a creature who had honed their perception and sense of danger to the level she had, was truly nightmarish.
The few times Glora spoke in detail to her children about her violent past was far and few between. But the awareness, the alertness to constant danger was first born when she was a normal goblin living in her home tribe. A need to be constantly alert for ambushes and rivals trying to rip a piece, a shred of anything from you. To spill blood and cause a feeding frenzy against that group.
The next came when she began to gain her names, like the Butcher, or Mad Gunman. She was hunted by armies, platoons and squadrons of elvish soldiers and scouts trying to pin her down and swarm her with a flood of numbers and arrows. The goblin had to develop the ability to constantly be present in the moment of combat, while maintaining the awareness necessary to avoid being flanked or surrounded. She needed to be capable of extreme violence at the twitch of a finger.
The stress, the weeks and months, totaling years of vigilance against bounty hunters, assassins, mercenary companies, and many, many other threats. Until every elf who placed a bounty, every organization that did not renounce and publicly disown and vowed death to them in the name of Madra the members of the Ceisiwier, every elf who had a direct hand that Glora could find was dead and barred from any respectable society, until all this was accomplished, she did not have a moment of peace or rest.
Every child and member of the guild was instilled on some level with the depth of perception the elderly goblin had. And only the gnomish daughter had a natural perception that matched their goblin elder, even if it was not as honed or polished as the monster that was Glora Cróga.
Tanny focused back her attention on the story and meal when one of her mother’s tests, a light stab at her flickering and waving tail, required not a conscious response, but a reaction to return the test with a shadow tendril that grew from her mother’s own jacket and attempted to snatch the piece of meat from her fork. To be met with the sudden slamming of the goblin’s thin arm against the table, crushing the tendril. While Glora performed the motion, she turned it into lifting her cup of halfling wine to call for a toast for the bravery and skill of their youngest.
Tanny smirked, amused by the games her mother so loved to play. Sure, the many years of small nicks against her throat, the scars across the webbing between her fingers, the small areas that had been repeatedly cut and eventually scared over, never to grow fur again, all these tiny things were harsh, were evil or unethical at the very least, to most soft skins, to Tanny, Dagger and Spoke, this was their life. This was their normal.
Dag had his challenges with mother, comparing speed and dexterity in sudden, almost spontaneous competitions. Who can fill their cup the most. Who can balance the glass or bottle on their nose for the longest. Who can avoid a barrage of flung projectiles the longest without spilling the beverage in their hands.
Tanny’s favorite will always be the coin toss battle. It was like skeet shooting, but with coins. Glora would set up usually a few golds’ worth of assorted currency. Two or four electrum, ten to twenty silver, and fifty to 100 copper pieces. Mother would say that their allowance for the week, or trip, or such was whatever they could match and hit out of the air.
So, Glora would usually toss five coins in the air at once. And Dag had to both grab the right colored darts from the table, so if two silver and three copper were tossed, he would need to pick up silver and copper, and then throw the darts to impact the coin in the air. If the dart went through the hole in the center and stuck into the wall behind it, they would get triple the value of the coin. If they hit the coin, but not through the center, and stuck in the wall, it was double. If the dart hit, but didn’t stick, it was the value of the coins hit. And if a dart missed the coin, the color or value of the dart was subtracted. If a dart hit the wrong color, the doubling or tripling would be subtracted following the same rules.
Dag absolutely adored it. He spent the entire month after Glora introduced them to the game simply practicing his dart throwing abilities. Only to be punished when the game was switched because he had been neglecting his other training for darts.
Glora was happy to indulge in her children’s desires and preferences, to a point. But there came a time when a reward for performing an action or training became the only reason a child performed the training, seeking only the reward, and not the additional benefits the training or teaching provided.
An example of this showed itself to Tanny and the rest of the family as Spoke was given the job of giving the feast’s toast.
The little goblin was the closest thing Glora would ever have to a true child, and with that, the gnoll and tabaxi noticed, came a level of affection or connection that the two furred children did not possess. It was not that Spoke was loved more. Or that he received special treatment that the older ones didn’t have an opportunity to indulge in. It was simply, he was raised from infancy in the arms of Glora and his elder siblings. He, by requirement of being a literal baby, needed a different level of connection and attention.
Spoke was, what those outside the clan would call, a Momma’s Boy. He mimicked, acted like, followed behind, and advised Glora beyond anything the elder siblings would ever dream of doing with their mother. Not because Glora would refuse them if they tried, but rather, it was just not the type of relationship the children developed.
The grey goblin was, from the moment he was able to speak, in love with the act. He sang, spoke, recited, and expressed himself completely and openly with his family. Never hiding behind the façade he wore as a mask and armor against those who would view goblins as small, weak and stupid. Spoke has started many duals and killed many people who have insulted him, but most especially his mother and his clan.
When the grey menace was younger, he began to learn to speak and read, because it made “Mama” happy and proud. He would recite his letters in common, undercommon, goblin, and any other language she would place before him. Because he wanted the approval and attention of his parent. But this would also become his biggest problem.
His pride, his love, his ego and need to defend his family and clan lead him to sometimes disastrous places.
“Glora Clan, tonigh’, we celebrate a victory. We celebrate the new saga of our lives an’ clan. This one night long war, has raised all of us a step further!” Spoke’s rural, almost molasses slow drawl, was not helped by the three bottles of wine he had consumed so far. “We ain’t had a war like this since we brought our youngest into the fold. Since the Glora Clan planted its name on the city’s streets in truth nearly four years ago.”
The goblin was weaving his spells, his magical sparks and musical skill into his words. Each sentence brought with it a new rumble of the senses, a new twinkle of sparks or soft breeze that was designed to inspire a sense of nostalgia, a sense of pride or even adoration or love as he spoke.
Spoke was not a bard because of his musical prowess. Spoke was a bard, was a wordsmith, was a poet or speaker, because to him, his words, his sentences, each syllable during his performance, was true art. Because each word was himself in his deepest of hearts.
The goblin child who sat for days and night, learning to read and memorize the words of others, fell so far past the lessons that they held, the rewards that they could give him, that words, speech, and language themselves, became a part of him.
This was Glora’s biggest failing in his training those eight years ago. But the greatest success she had ever had in his training. And the only thing about his training, she would not change for her son.
From a failure of discipline, a failure to recognize her own indulgence of her child’s desires, was birthed a talent that magical, would never truly or accurately capture.
Glora had failed her son, failed in raising him to be like her. While still succeeding at it in all the ways that mattered most.
Tanny could see that in her mother’s eyes. She could feel the pride that swelled in the goblin’s chest, in the gnolls, the gnome and halflings, and even her own furry chest.
And they all expressed it in sync, at the crescendo of a truly masterful toast, mimicking the vocal tic of their mother.
“Glory to Glora’se Clan!”