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Giant Snake
Seeker
84 Posts |
 Posted - 14 Nov 2025 : 16:46:24
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The snow crunched in rhythm under five pairs of boots, fur lined against the cold. Hobgoblins were hardier than other races. That is to say their willpower was greater, for they felt pain as easily as any man. No dumb brutes were they, like filthy orcs who would never even feel the pain of a rotten tooth until the thing broke loose or mortified itself. Gormixel had seen such a thing before, amazed that the gray and green things could chance to become even uglier.
Gormixel was not ugly by the standard of most races, although he cut an unimpressive figure for what he was. His own nose was large enough and with a fine divet down the middle, his nostrils lined over with refined marks like a sneer. His hair came in thick waves, when he allowed it to grow. Yet his nose was still as deep red as the rest of him, not the noble blue of one of his dark god’s favored. His eyes were orange enough and bright against his black sclera, but considered unremarkable. For piercings, he had less than many - brows lined with hooks of steel and even one of mythril, a prize from a slain dwarf lord’s chain.
Nothing marked the hobgoblin as favored in any way except by the fortunes of war and survival, for he bore many scars over a body that threatened to be short for his kind. He was closer in height to a man at a mere six foot. It was what he kept within that height that told a greater story. Gormixel was the epitome of physical perfection. No hulking brute or lithe climber. He had servants who excelled him at either. As a leader, he possessed the strength to cleave a steel helm and the endurance to hold a shieldwall until the day of battle ended.
Gormixel thought himself the ideal soldier. He was right.
The four escorting the leader of fifty came to an abrupt halt, the staccato command from the biggest one followed by a command to face inwards. As one, the hobgoblin spearmen snapped their heads towards the tent of their chieftain, spears held to the side as if to point the way.
The tent of a chieftain… thought Gormixel as he beheld it. A tent it was, but large and with many connected rooms to the sides. The main enclosure was large enough and jaggedy in a way these cruel beings found pleasing. The others were rather squat and round. All were ugly, made from baser hides of what could be found here in the Sword Mountains. A tent worthy of some idiotic beast. We insult ourselves.
Gormixel strode past the outer guards and through the flap of the tent, ducking like a supplicant in order to make his way in. A few trusted retainers and the mate were in attendance, and none paid the new arrival any mind at all. It was the customary dismissive attitude the Crow’s Foot Tribe had come to expect from their chieftain.
The chieftain sat on a low tuffet, a round table with apertures for bowls within it. Gormixel noted that a flame beneath the chieftain’s own bowl. A fine luxury, given that hobgoblins relished food as it was being cooked rather than after.
He came to stand before this low table at a respectful distance, punched a fist to chest, and raised three nails forward - the salute of his tribe. The chieftain, whose name was Misselkik, did not look up from his meal. Misselkik did have the noble blue nose of Magublyet’s favored, the markings even extending to his forehead and along the tops of his long ears. Many fine piercings adorned both his brow and beard, heavy and black…and oily with the feast.
The cooking table was a fine thing, black and burnished. The sound of the meat sizzling within the angled bowl filled the room as well as the scent of a hearty meal. Misselkik ate with a two-pronger, spearing what appeared as bear meat and winter beans…and writhing black scorpions.
Gormixel did his best to avert his eyes from the meal. Scorpions were a delicacy, especially this late in winter and so far from lands where they were common. They looked and smelled most scrumptious, causing a most unsettling break in the proud warrior’s iron discipline. But Gormixel did his best to conceal his hunger, eyes fixed on the chieftain’s in direct - respectful - regard.
“What tell of the foothills. Give report!” Commanded Misselkik without ever raising his eyes from the delicious meal before him. Gormixel noticed that the chieftain also had eagle eggs cooked within that savory fry.
Gormixel spoke direct. “My losses: sixteen. Three neophytes among them. The enemy: seven. Dead to the last and staked high as warning.”
“A poor ratio. I am of mind to trust another for our next foray.”
“The men of Uthgardt are no trifling foes. They were aided by a weaver of mysteries, some mage of considerable power.”
Misselkik speared one more scorpion and now did regard his raid leader. The chieftain’s eyes were gold within the black - a yellow gold to match his golden beard-rings rather than a moon-like glow. “You give excuses? After I entrusted you with five guul’dar?” His fangs closing down on the struggling scorpion, half cooked and stinging madly.
Gormixel knew his parameters as a leader. “I left the guul’dar in their cages. Stupid, unfit for the mission. Seventeen died, and now thirty are far stronger. Their taste for Man’s red blood awakened. I retain the beasts for a time as they are needed.” Already the plan had been worked out in his mind, the things commonly called ‘bugbears’ by humans were stealthy enough, yet easily confounded. Gormixel had known beforehand the enemy had a mage among them.
The chieftain chewed slowly as he weighed Gormixel in his eyes, leaning back among the hides that completed his meagre throne. At length, he gave a “tch” and made a flicking motion with his nails.
From along the back wall, Sikril, the mate, gave a scoff and a cruel grin. She was adorned like some harlot of men, piercings heavy yet made more for their shine than for pain. Her hair had been tied back high, revealing her slender neck and bared upper chest over a tight bodice of doeskin. Many thought her a beauty, and physically she was. She had used her wiles often, always scorning Gormixel and others deemed of lesser destiny.
One of the chieftain’s enforcers now spoke up from behind, as if on cue. “Fail your way to victory then, Gormixel the simple. We will require some to stop the arrows of the wretched fairies, come our war at springtide.”
Gormixel recognized the speaker as Korvash, a master at fighting unarmed as well as with his hooked sword. A formidable warrior, and utterly devoted to his chieftain. The other enforcer simply rasped an ugly laugh. That one had always despised Gormixel and had slandered him often. The patient leader of fifty had long waited for the day he would take revenge. That time was now very close at hand.
“Then you are resolved to hunt the wisps of the woods once again, chieftain?” Gormixel crossed his arms. It was a disrespectful gesture, but it also kept his hands far from the edged club at his side. I stand utterly defenseless before you, old fool.
Misselkik’s head rotated back forward now, reclined on the furs. The two enforcers drew close to Gormixel now, their hot breath on the raid leader’s neck. Sikril came forward, allowing a view of her low bodice to the seemingly beleaguered hobgoblin. Soft and supple, her only battles being under the coarse furs of the chieftain she had so easily seduced.
The mate placed a slender hand along her chieftain’s shoulders, faintly caressing a chest that was still quite powerful despite his years. “Do you mean to challenge your chieftain’s decree, Gormixel?”
She had no right to speak his name directly, as he saw it. “I question the wisdom in spending a season or more skulking through the forest, seeking out a foe already beset by many other foes. The elves…” he called them by their true name then, “…are unworthy foes. We remain a weak tribe because we choose weak opposition.”
Big Korvash sauntered in front now…and delivered a powerful blow to the daring raid leader. The loud crack of flesh resounded over the sound of the low fire - a strike that would have felled most. Gormixel gave no report of the sound, although his face had already begun to swell, the cheek split wide open. He did not wipe away the dark blood.
As Korvash resumed his place behind, Misselkik spoke most nonchalant. “They are the ancient foe.” He leaned forward then and wiped his hands and beard clean with a cloth, meticulous as any of his race. “Then I take it you still harbor some delusion of war with men, even unto the coasts. Why? I will hear your reasons.”
Gormixel straightened, palms now upwards in seeming submission. “Because they humiliate us at every turn. Because they rule the breadth of the coast and field massive hosts. They barter with all and gird themselves better than any. No tribe dares to march on them in force, not for centuries, and only at the behest of some wizard of the same or as wretched thralls to invaders from below…or dragons.” His hands dropped to his side. “You fear to fight them.”
Misselkik’s yellow eyes went wide, momentarily too stunned to even stand at the clear challenge. Gormixel had no such hesitation. He spun and reached to the dagger that Korvash kept strapped near a shoulder. With one hand he grasped the hilt, and shoved the bigger hobgoblin back with the other, ripping past the leather fastener.
With a spin, Gormixel plunged the jagged blade into the face of the other enforcer, whose hands both went to the fatal entry. A guttural growl escaped that one for a moment, but he fell dead in seconds, his name already forgotten with the sated revenge.
Big Korvash rose to his feet, fingers going to the sword at his side. The tent flap behind him flung open and a loyal hobgoblin of Gormixel’s band burst in, trapping Korvash’s neck under a spear drawn tight against him. Khazruk was shorter than the big enforcer, but he had been a smith for years. There was no escaping that iron hold…yet Khazruk did not come to kill. “Behold the rise of a true chieftain,” whispered Khazruk into the brute’s ear, holding him fast with a snarling grin.
Gormixel now did draw his edged club as he turned round to face the chieftain no longer. It was a weapon suited for open battle as well as the duel - curved forward like some kopesh or elven ax, sharpened steel along the killing edge with spikes long enough to pierce chain and flesh beneath.
Misselkik had now gained his feet. He kicked aside the ornate eating table and drew ax and sword from his side, his mate fleeing down a hide hallway to the rear. The old chieftain lurched forward with a backswing. The following weapon never made its arc, as Gormixel’s club caught the old hobgoblin at the elbow, shattering the arm with one blow and sending him down to his furs.
The old chieftain’s left shot forward with his sword - an easy dodge. Gormixel’s club caught at the wrist and left the hobgoblin sprawled and prostrate. Gormixel now leaned in with a panther’s speed and gripped the failed leader by his long, black beard, hauling him to his feet.
Gormixel searched for fear in those yellow eyes and found it. The old chieftain knew it - his death would come without honor. With a contemptuous jerk, Misselkik was sent back to his furs of comfort. A fitting bier for such an unworthy. Gormixel planted his boot on the old hobgoblin’s chest and reared back to deliver a deathblow, but he did not strike. His orange eyes went to the back of the tent, directing attention that way.
Sikril, the mate, now came forward, her arm gripped by a true warrior. Vexa, as powerful in battle as she was erudite, heeled the weaker she-hobgoblin near to her pathetic mate and kicked the back of her knees. Sikril’s eyes already ran with coward’s tears, the ochre of her eye-shadow now forming dark rivulets across her soft features. She had not seen the true horror yet.
Out from the same tunnel now came one known as Zogrek, a powerfully built hobgoblin who carried a long maul. Before him marched the progeny of Sikril and Misselkik. The last of a bloodline. The youngs put on a brave face but their breaths came rapid. Zogrek himself had trained them how to die a warrior, as did Korvax, the other mute witness to the coup.
With a single swing, the maul crashed through the heads of the three, splitting craniums open and spilling the dark brains onto the rugs. The three died worthier than their sire. They fell forward without sound, facing their enemy.
Sikril gave a piercing wail and began to rend her neck and chest, the black nails long and iron-hard. Gormixel gave her no regard nor would he ever do so again. His club descended and split open the erstwhile chieftain’s sternum, the black blood spurting across his arms and banded armor.
Gormixel turned round and held the edged club under a palm, posed as the conqueror. His eyes darted now to the stout smith, who relinquished his hold on big Korvash and stepped back with a bow.
Korvash fell forward, rasping for air. He was already kneeling before his new chieftain, and all present knew it. He raised his chin to behold Gormixel then. The hobgoblin there did not have the golden rings nor the thick beard of the leader of decades, nor was he as broad of shoulder. He looked more the common soldier, yet the eyes that had looked so common before now had the steady certainty of one that would lead the Crow’s Foot Tribe to glory or doom. Anywhere but mediocrity.
Korvash lowered his gaze. “Master.”
The overturned cooking-table had already threatened to ignite the rugs. With a point of finger, Gormixel ordered an assembly without. This large tent that had sat here for so long would be of no use on a winter’s march, so unwieldy was it with all its trappings of faded glory.
“Shall I bleed the hoor, Master?” Rasped Vexa.
Gormixel affixed his club to his side almost nonchalantly. He kicked over a large candle-stand to a row of firewood. “She is no warrior to bleed. See to her wishes as bedwarmer to indolents.”
Vexa laughed. “That I shall. The gray orcs have an unholy desire for those fairer and mismatched to them. I’ll find her a chieftain from the hills. An ugly one.”
Sikril’s eyes went shut with pain, her wailing now replaced by quiet whimpers.
Gormixel and his chief enforcers now departed the tent - a massive bonfire that gathered the whole of the Crow’s Foot Tribe within minutes. No words passed for none were needed. The chieftain stood silhouetted by the flames, Korvash, Vexa, and the others now standing behind and on line. The nucleus of a new legion.
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A Tale of the Legion (hobgoblins)
