Goblins

by TomatoFace

Embers to Ashes

The morning was just as eventful as the night. Everyone that wasn't a baby would be mobilized, including a few pregnant women. The infants and toddlers back at the village had all been penned up and were restricted to a small area in one of the cabins. Goblins were excitedly beating on each other as the shaman's apprentice began to hand out the painkilling potions. War paint adorned all of them, and everyone, save for the chieftain's bodyguard, wore armor. What Wakja called the 'march' was little more than a chaotic horde. Some were excitedly bouncing, waving their weapons in the air, others beating their chestplates and yelling at the sky. One thing was for sure, they were all excited.

Dartop and Gringel were certainly happy, both of them covered in red paint, so excited for the battle that they didn't even bother with any pattern. Their armor was a bit loose, and their axes a tad heavy, but nothing they could handle. They were goblins, strong, proud. They had no idea where their mother was, not did they care, so they were having a blast. Their battle cries joined those of their fellow soldiers in a loud chorus of excited screams. It was on this day they would prove themselves, make their ancestors proud, just like Wakja had said. And even if one of them died, they would go to Sheortstek, the city of gold, and would forever feast with every other noble goblin that had died before them. From Rottenteeth the dragonslayer, who killed two dragons all on his own, to Wortvat the Smart, who created life from metal and rocks, every hero and heroine in the stories of old would be there, and they would meet to trade tales. Most of their own stories would revolve around screwing something up, but it was usually the goblin heroes who were the only ones that did anything right, so it was fine. They would fight, and they would be immortalized in glory.

Martyla was, if anything, enraged. But, for the first time in years, her fury was not aimed at her sons or inanimate objects that she stubbed her toes on. No, it was directed at the changelings. H ow dare they try to drive her from her own home? She would be glad to slay them, be glad to crush their eggs, to burn their home and mount their queen's head on a pike. The thought of victory gave her a warm feeling, and she growled and hollered with the rest of the horde. Unlike most of her fellow goblins, she wanted to fight just to fight. It wasn't about glory. It wasn't about Sheortstek. It was simply for the destruction of every single one of the bugs, to crush their heads under her steel boot. It was for the joy of killing.

Today was the day. Jaktirep wasn't ready to die, but if he deserted the horde, then what would he be? Where would he go? The only option was to die alongside the folk he was born with, the folk that would be the last goblins to ever live. What civilization would take in a goblin, one of the most destructive, dirty, and vulgar creatures to ever live? He had nowhere to turn to, and would do best to die in battle, with honor, rather than starve to death in the woods. A goblin could not live alone, no, they need each other, otherwise they need to operate as a community or they couldn't operate at all. He was born with the horde, he would die with the horde.

Doudigat found it rather hard to dispense the potions, since everyone was slamming into each other, and weaving through the crowd with a purpose was nearly impossible. Of course, if you were one of the grunts bumping chests, you could move from one corner to another in minutes. However, once everything was complete, he joined the goblins who would lead the attack, the same goblins that sat in the chairs during the meetings. Wakja, of course, was leading the leaders, and they collectively led the horde. "Potions all dispensed, we ready to attack." The chieftain nodded and turned to the bodyguard, who began to blow on a horn of bone. The horn of war. The horde stopped their pre-battle celebrations and all looked at the chief, who was holding the ceremonial axe.

"Today, Goblins be great again. We make goblins great again. Our actions in fight be our defining moment, we make choice of whether we honorably go to Sheortstek when die, or we be just as disgraceful as changelings." He raised the axe again, his voice as full of anger as it could be. "Today, we kill Chrysalis, we kill all bugs, we make name of goblins legendary once aga-" In the height of his speech, a green flash blinded the horde, and when they could see again, their leader was a pile of ash. Changelings began to pour out of the woods,swarming around the horde like a vortex. Chrysalis' laugh could be heard by all, and the changelings hit the goblins in a massive wake of shell and horn.

When they were blinded, Dartop and Gringel jumped, Dartop even dropping his axe. They always were a bit jumpy. When they could see again, Wakja was nowhere to be seen. When they began to scan the horde to see if maybe he was with the grunts for some reason, waves of dirty bugs came from the woods, swirling around them in a whirlpool of death. They began to clump up and, in one large wave, hit the horde like a storm. Few goblins actually died, and just about everyone killed at least one bug. Dartop's excitement at slicing one's head clean off was cut short when the next wave came, and that's where the casualties on the goblins' side were, because of the premature celebration of their kills. Dartop was one of the many plucked from the ground and dropped when the wave climbed a hundred feet in the air. In all, fourteen were dropped from the skies, Gringel lucky to have been missed. His luck ran out when the third wave hit and he impaled a changeling that was coming straight for him. The unluckiness in this was that the bug was coming at him so fast that it slammed into him with enough force to break his spine, and he was trampled to death by his fellow goblins.

Jaktirep was stabbed by changeling horns twice in the first wave, and kicked in the head on the second, but he still stood, swinging his mace at every bit of black he saw. There was a hole in his left hand and one in his neck, but goblins were build to continue going until the very end, and the shaman's concoction was working perfectly. He heard a laugh, one that was synonymous with evil doings. Another wave, and his mace was stuck in the exoskeleton of a now-injured changeling. He would have to fight with his hands. The changelings kept hitting them, harder and harder. He did whatever he could to hinder or injure any changeling that passed him, or tried to attack him, be it eye gouging, punching, or whatever else he could do with his hands. He lost track of the waves, there were so many. His comrades fell around him or were lifted up and dropped, and any part of his body not covered in armor was covered with gashes and bruises. He felt something wrap around his arm and was lifted up off the ground. Raising his free arm to attack the bug lifting him up, he was not given the chance before he was dropped to his death.

Doudigat was doing all he could with his magical staff, but it was not enough. His apprentice did not survive the first wave, surprisingly enough. Even with his magical stick spouting flames into the air at the approaching waves, the tribe was quickly losing. Wave after wave, they were being crushed, the last remaining pocket of goblins slowly slaughtered by these bugs. Men, women and children. All killed the same. It's not like he cared, though. Goblins could watch their family die before them and be unfazed. There was another green flash, and he felt an intense heat. And where he once stood, there were only ashes.

That shaman had become quite the nuisance, Chrysalis hated to see her changelings fall to fire. Far too painful a fate for such loyal subjects. So she incinerated him with a beam of energy. The goblins were holding up better than she had expected, much better. But they were still falling. The disgusting little blight on the world being erased, for good. She had already sent a few extra soldiers into the goblin village to kill their babies and burn whatever was left to indicate the dirty goblins were ever here.

Martyla was the last to stand. Not an inch of her body wasn't covered in the purple blood of her comrades and herself. The changelings seemed to be taking their time. Long ago had she run out of throwing spears and switched to her axe. Corpses lay all around her both changeling and goblin, she was one of those who took up the middle of the horde. Green fluid dripped from her axe, her hands were gripping the wooden handle so hard it was giving her splinters. A horn had cut her cheek so deep that her tongue could fit out the hole, and did. Why weren't they attacking her? Were the changelings stupid? Were they afraid? In truth, they were taking their time, waiting to see what emotions they could get out of the last goblin in the world. She smelled fire, and looking back at the source of the scent, she saw the village being completely engulfed in a green conflagration. She didn't care, and instead of mourning, was waiting for the changelings to come down so she could start swinging at them again. It wasn't long before the swarm ended her, every single one of them just lunging at her, tearing her to pieces with their hooves and horns. And the last ember was finally stomped out.

Comments

[Blue Streak]

Wow, just wow. That, um... I don't know what to say. I feel sorry for the last goblin tribe. Facing extinction is not fun but they at least went down fighting.

[Temmie]

"hmmm interesting, need more fire though."
8/10 -The Goblin Arsonist