Chapter 1: Chapter 1: The Odd Goblin

                                        

 

Chapter 1: The Odd Goblin

     On the Ebon Realm, within the Vulture Woods, an odd child was born to a goblin tribe. He was a goblin, yes, but odd. He was smaller than the rest of the goblins, and where most babies were a chubby forest green color, he was a sickly blue. Not sickly because of the color blue, in fact he had more of a cyan skin tone, no, but because he came out frail, scrawny even. He coughed incessantly the first few nights. The goblin Mothers were annoyed by the child’s wheezing, saying it only denoted the child’s weakness. Some of the male goblins thought it odd that the Mothers would find coughing annoying since they were surrounded by crying babies. But, after the first male had pointed it out, the rest had quickly decided not to say anything as they looked at their bloody brother lying on the ground, out cold. Most thought that the goblin baby wouldn’t survive the first week, but he did, which simply made him more odd. To the bewilderment of the Mothers it took two entire weeks for him to finally open his eyes. Even stranger, while the child had slit pupils, they had never seen a goblin with lilac irises, although they had never met one with cyan skin either, so they decided to let him off. Had he been born albino they would have burned him over the fire pit and had him for dinner; tragically, he was instead born odd. His name was Stryg. 

     For the most part the first few years of his life were the same as other younglings. Like other goblins, Stryg was raised collectively by the goblin Mothers. They taught him the most important things in life, such as how to hide from wolves that prowled the trees only a few miles from their village. The cooks showed him how to skin a rabbit or even better, how to skin and cook goblins from rival tribes. Stryg enjoyed the taste of goblin flesh like any other upstanding goblin, especially when the tribe managed to get the rare prize, salt. Although, if Stryg had to be honest with himself he much preferred eating venison. Sadly, deer wasn’t very common in the area, what with wolves and all. Of course, most goblins hated the taste of venison anyway, so Stryg had learned not to request any from the hunters. He wasn’t very popular with the hunters. 

     All he wanted was to be strong, like the hunters. So, when Sigte, one of the older and more eccentric hunters offered to give him private training lessons, Stryg couldn’t have been more ecstatic. Stryg hadn’t expected the lessons to be about writing strange symbols on the ground with a stick. Sigte called it the dangerous technique of words. He said it was a powerful weapon, in the right battle, a different kind of strength. Stryg had a difficult time believing him since the goblin laughed as he spoke about this reading thing. Stryg knew there were different kinds of strength though, like Cruvor, the tribe’s venerable shaman, who could make fire with his mind. And since Stryg had no other hunter willing to teach him, he gave it his all to learn the strange technique. It had taken him over two years to master the skill. But, when he went to proudly present the squiggly symbols he had drawn to the other goblins, they all laughed at him. Stryg had run off in shame, his face a shade of dark blue. He was no longer odd, now he was just weird.

     As for Sigte he had gone on a hunt one day and came across a dire bear. All they had found of him was a broken bow and his left shoe. So much for his words technique, Stryg thought with small clenched fists. 

     At least the Mothers had taught him important matters. Especially the most important life lesson of all, “The strongest get what they want, so be the strongest.” Such a simple yet profound lesson, Stryg mused. He was closer to being the weakest, but that didn’t stop him from dreaming. He was grateful to the Mothers for their teachings, even if he was one of the few goblins who didn’t actually view the Mothers as parental figures. Well, none of them were actual mothers. Most goblins didn’t know who their parents were. It was almost impossible to tell who the father was since most slept with different women each night and vice-versa. As for the women, birth mothers gave their babies to the Mothers immediately after labor, to be raised not as an individual but as a tribe. After all, a lone goblin would get picked off by the wolf packs, but a group of goblins could slay a dire bear.

     Goblins didn’t bother telling the young who their actual mothers were. Except for Stryg, he knew about his mom. Some of the Mothers had made it abundantly clear that she had died during his birth, a bad omen sent from the moon herself. Stryg guessed his mom had been weak, how else could she have died in labour while the rest lived. To be honest, he didn’t really care about her death, only that she had passed on her weakness to him. He cursed her for that. As for the bad omen, he knew he looked different than the rest, with his grey hair, and strange skin, he didn’t even want to think about his purple eyes, they were practically pink for moon’s sake! He wished he had bright yellow eyes like the rest. 

     Stryg was now seventeen years old but still quite skinny, not that any goblin was very stocky. But Stryg somehow managed to look wiry besides the other youth, despite being an inch or two shorter. His smaller build had made it harder to follow the hunters on their trails, or even train with them in the village square. He always fell behind the more resilient goblins his age, no matter how much he tried. And he did try, he was the first of the young to wake and the last to go to sleep. He practiced the spear and bow for twice as long as the rest. Though he had some success with the spear his bow skills left much to desire. He simply didn’t have the strength to properly pull the bow string back. When it came to hand-to-hand combat, he always came last. He had memorized the basic moves, he was even agile enough, but he just didn’t have the suitable strength to take down another goblin. Which of course, caused the others to laugh at him behind his back, some even in his face. Normally, one would fight back, but Stryg had learned early in his life that he wasn’t very strong. So, he simply swallowed his anger and ignored the comments. 

     One morning, he crawled up from his straw mat and looked around the tent at the fellow goblins, they were all still asleep. Stryg knew he should be sleeping too, after all he’d need his strength for tonight’s challenge, but he was too excited. 

     He quietly crawled around his sleeping brothers and walked out of the tent. The sun was only beginning to peek through the forest’s red canopy. Today would be different, he swore as he took a deep breath. 

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     The village was quiet for the most part, with the occasional vulture cawing somewhere past the grey trees. A few moans could be heard from the occasional tent. Stryg glanced at some of them as he walked by. As he was still considered a child he was forced to sleep in the common youth male tent. But that would all change today. Tonight he would turn eighteen and officially be an adult in the tribe’s eyes. He’d be able to have his own tent and finally have his own space. He would also be able to join one of the tribe paths.

     Sadly, he knew he wasn’t very strong compared to most of the goblins, so he probably wouldn’t be able join the hunters. But he could still join the guards, he hoped. Or at least the cooking team. Everyone loved the cooks, and excluding the chief and shaman they were the first to eat. Though, there weren’t many cook positions and it required knowing how to skin and dismember animals quickly and thoroughly, a skill which Stryg wasn’t very confident in. He was really regretting spending his time learning how to draw on the ground. Still, so long as he wasn’t placed in with the gatherers or builders he’d be fine. The girls never paid much attention to the builders and the gatherers always went missing in the forest, eaten by wolves, enemy tribes, dire bears, or honestly anything that was larger than a goblin, which was most things in the forest. 

     Stryg finally made his way to an empty patch of blue grass, a few dozen feet from the tents. In a slow manner he began practicing the hand-to-hand techniques that the Mothers had taught him and the rest as children. He began with a series of punches and transitioned into a few low kicks. After about half-an-hour his hands were resting on his knees and he was taking short breaths, gasping for air. He had practiced for years, but his stamina hadn’t improved much compared to the rest. The others could maintain their breath for over an hour of training and run for several more. 

     Stryg wouldn’t complain, no one would care to listen, nor would it help him personally, well, maybe just a little. He knew he needed to get stronger if he ever had any hope of joining the hunters someday. They were one of the most respected of any path, excluding the Mothers, and he was a male so he couldn’t join the Mothers anyway. The shaman, Cruvor, had the most prestigious position, even the chief and First Mother paid their respects to him. But, you needed to have the moon’s blessing of magic to ever become his apprentice. Last Stryg checked, no one else in the tribe could summon fire. All that was left for Stryg was to train more then. He forced his arms and legs to go through the fighting motions once more. After another forty minutes he had to take a break. The sun’s light was shining through the blood-red leaves now, breakfast would be starting any minute. He shuffled his tired muscles back to the village.

     As he grew closer he saw the chief walk out of his tent, followed by two of his goblin women. As the leader eyed him, Stryg made sure to bow deeply. The chief was the greatest path Stryg could aspire to. But, even the chief had once been a hunter. Not that Stryg thought he’d ever be strong enough to become chief, he probably wouldn’t even be able to join the hunters. Still he had to try and tonight would be a good display to everyone on why he’d be a great hunter.

The chief gazed at the young goblin walking away. 

     “Oh, it’s the weird little blue one, what’s his name again?” One of his women yawned as she gave the boy a dismissive glance.

“Stryg. He’s not that little, only an inch or two smaller than you,” the chief responded.

     “Yeah, but he’s a guy. He should be like, four feet,” she giggled, “not three and a half.”

The chief sighed, “That boy trains harder than anyone in this tribe. He has the heart of a true goblin.”

     “Too bad he doesn’t have the body of one, not much of a fighter is he?” The chief’s other woman chimed in.

The chief shook his head and kept walking, “Tonight he becomes an adult. We’ll see how well he can fight then.”

The women followed without another word.

 

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