Doyle's War.

[Scars]

((Closed to my little Goblin friend.))

- - - - -

The walk that had taken Ferael Finn from the bay in which The Fable had been anchored had taken less time than expected. The town of Doyle had appeared on the near flat horizon on the fourth bell from midday, and he had reached it by the sixth. It was a quiet place, with a single main street and buildings lining each side. The only apparent structures that hadn’t been erected along the main street were barns and stables, for Doyle was, Ferael guessed, primarily an agricultural town. He had observed that some of the surrounding fields were used to grow corn and sugar cane, though it appeared the harvest was not greatly successful. Areas of the crops on either side of the path he had followed to reach the town had withered and died. He did not ask of it, but it was apparent that it had not rained in some time.

The local tavern – The Black Flower - had been easy to find, for there were few buildings with signs erected outside them. Ferael had made his temporary home before the bar, and it appeared he was one of few. The tavern was close to empty, save a pair of farmers talking over a tankard of mead. Still, that was expected with the town’s population, for there were only enough houses to accommodate around fifty people. He would find a bed for the night, and then be on his way.

Ferael’s stomach growled like a caged bear.

“‘Scuse me,” he called, and the barman, who had served him a drink a few minutes beforehand, came to stand before him. “Could I be gettin’ some kind of… steak... to fill me stomach?”

The bartender’s face seemed to scrunch up. “I know it sounds odd, my friend, but I’m ‘fraid not. There ain’t any meat to eat.”

“Aye? I saw a pair o’ cattle in one o’ the field on me way into town. Are ya tellin’ me they can’t be ate?” Ferael asked.

“’Fraid not,” came the reply, and the pirate frowned. “See, those two cows are the only ones left, and the man who owns ‘em ain’t likely going to sell ‘em to me to cook for you.”

Ferael frowned again, and then he leant on one hand and tapped his fingers against his cheek. After a moment, he said: “Can’t you, err… make ‘em make more?”

“They’re cows.”

“Aye…?”

The bartender paused, searching for understanding in Ferael’s eyes, yet he found only ignorance. “They ain’t lesbians.”

Another short pause saw the tavern engulfed in silence. “I see,” Ferael said after a moment. “So you got no food?”

“If it weren’t for those blasted green skins.”

“Green skins?”

“Goblins, aye,” the barman said. “Stealin’ cattle to fill their own wretched stomachs.”

Ferael sat up straight, his expression revealing curiosity. “Tell us more,” he instructed, “'bout these green skins.”

“Filthy bastards,” the bartender spouted immediately. “They’ve been shacked up in Ronpin’s big barn for weeks now, just nippin’ at our heels and thievin’ left, right and centre. Furniture; clothes; ale; weapons; gold; animals. Eighteen cows, ten… no, twelve pigs and three ‘orses. And no-one’s seen young Ms. Cotton for days. Come to think of it, there’s a few people that’ve gone missin’, and I wouldn’t put it down to them all bein’ recluse if you get what I’m sayin’.”

“I could take a guess.”

The bartender’s brow rose as he regarded the pirate. “Not the sharpest knife in the draw, are ya?”

“Aye, me mother would be sayin’ the same thing.” He shifted his weight from one elbow to the other. “Ya mean ta say they been thieved as well?”

“That’s right. Kidnapped, and likely eaten I’d guess.”

This time it was Ferael’s brow that rose in surprise. “And nobody’s done nothin’?”

“Look around,” the bartender said. “This is an agricultural village. No-one ‘ere is trained to use weapons. Only pitchforks; and not against a band of raving green skins.”

“But I be wantin’ steak,” Ferael replied, his visage swaying towards displaying irritation.

“So you go skip up to them slimy green skins and ask nicely if they’ll consider givin’ you a cow or two out of pure generosity.”

Ferael sat in thought for a moment, and then he released the grip on his tankard and stood. “I’ll be doin’ just that.” The pirate pushed his stool out and turned, making his way past empty tables and straight out of the red double doors of The Black Flower, leaving them to swing back and forth as if a gale was blowing outside. Four eyes watched those doors in uncertainty, and another two were wide with surprise.

The bartender placed down the tankard he had been cleaning, and only after a long pause did he find the words he had been searching for. “Bloody idiot.”

[MadGoblin]

As the sun plunged beyond the horizon, burning the land in a fiery light before it vanished for the day, the growing shadows stirred with vile intent. The nefarious creatures who had cursed the orb of fire found that their time had come and could conduct their ill deeds without hindrance. Tiny feet scampered across the land, diving between the various nooks and shadows, eagerly anticipating when the sun would fully fall. The dry rustling of the withered fields faintly hinted in the windless air as a concealed form darted through the lost crops. The people of the simple hamlet knew the dangers that were lurking, and many had locked themselves up for the night well in advance.

"What a lie! Dere's not no eahs at all!" All of the dangers, that is, except for this one. "I was told dis cohn would ha'e eahs ta it." He was no threat at all. Stomping around the untended field, a short, gray skinned fiend snapped stalks in order to peer at their tops. Each time, he was disappointed and tossed the withered growth to the ground. Bimblesnaff had heard about the "ears of corn" and had wanted to investigate the matter for himself. Much to his disappointment, the vegetation had no discernable ears on it, enraging the Ghobling. He was to be the one that lied, not be lied to. His anger would more well founded if his knowledge of agriculture was not so poor, and even then it would be far off since Bogg was currently looking for corn in a field of sugar cane.

The lunatic's sudden and inexplicable interest in the kernel matters was related to his arrival in the unfamiliar village, or, at least, more connected than any of his typical, ludicrous behaviors. Having managed to evade death yet again, much to the world's disappointment and the underworld's glee, the maniac celebrated the only way he knew how: heavy drinking. With a full belly and a face full of pain from women's rejection, he sought a comfortable and, more importantly, free bed to spend a long, deep, undeserved slumber on. He found one that was like sleeping on air in the middle of the street, which he did not find odd as it was the same place he found many meals. Settling down for a long day of sleep, the bed's true identity was not realized as the canvas atop a covered wagon. Even once the stagecoach took off to its destination, the lazy sleep was never broken, no matter how unsteady the road became. The vehicle was making a delivery of various produce and supplies to the town of Doyle, which had recently been in dire need of such things due to an unexpected shortage. Other towns did not know what the problem was but greedily saw the opportunity for easy trading and profit. Several merchants made long journeys to peddle their wares to the town in need at a less than practical price, of course. Not going unpunished, their unsold supplies were also at the mercy of the goblin scourge.

Bimblesnaff was stirred from his otherwise peaceful rest when a loud argument broke out between a seller and a citizen of Doyle. He had claimed the vendor was overcharging for his goods. The source of their feuding in particular was over the cost of an ear of corn. Amazed to learn such a bizarre fact, the maniac had to see it for himself. Sliding off the carrier, the fiend slunk away from the disputing crowd unnoticed to seek out some crops. Also escaping acknowledgement was Bogg's relocation. His eyes could not distinguish the differences between above ground settlements, claiming that they all looked like impersonal, detailless boxes. Dodging between the shade to keep the filthy light off himself, he arrived at the incorrect field to be disappointed by the truth: that he was an idiot.

"Hey, you!" shouted out a rattled voice. The lunatic turned to find one of the residents addressing him. It was an older man, portly yet built, dressed in simple, bland clothing, who carried a pitchfork. "What are you doin' in my field?" The farmer had kept his distance at first, knowing that the goblins gallivanted in numbers, but grew bolder as he saw what looked like one of the imps alone. The setting sun had lit a wild blaze behind the Ghobling, only letting the shadowed outline of his sickly form be visible to the sower. No connection would have been made to Bimblesnaff's inferior breed, or even his own, if the dull, gray skin he had recently obtained could be seen. It was simple misunderstanding that could be easily resolved, but he was simpler.

"Filthy human wretch," wickedly hissed the maniac, "I should cut ya down an' feast on yer children!" He grinned devilishly under the brim of his hat as he boasted a fierce guise but swiftly turned tail once the pointy tool he had forgotten about was raised. With whooping yelps, the grey skin bolted from the pasture. His great haste had knocked the headgear from his crown. Without slowing pace, he was able to pluck it from the air before it drifted out of his reach. While performing the rescue, however, he was unaware of the seafarer who had entered his path.

[Scars]

The single street of Doyle was void of life as Ferael Finn emerged from The Black Flower, wall-mounted torches blazing every ten paces on both sides of the road. Shadows wavered as those torches flickered in the light breeze, though Ferael’s attention was fixed on the landscape that stretched beyond the town; on those crop fields that escaped the fire’s glow. He walked quickly, his hands buried in the pockets of the leather coat that he wrapped around his form. The dust that stirred with his steps jumped and danced in the wind, like the sands of a desert or the ashes from a raging fire. He passed the further-most of the town’s many near-identical buildings, the whispers and creeping footfalls sounding in alleyways and on rooftops behind him falling on deaf ears.

As Ferael waded through knee high corn, the light faded from his back, though he held in his hand a torch taken from one of the wall-mounted brackets in the town. It gave him sufficient light to see where he was treading, and for a short distance around him. He had turned left after reaching the end of the town’s road, noticing that three or four large structures broke the flat horizon a few hundred paces from the town. He passed upturned carts; discarded farming tools; tattered clothing and furniture strewn across the dry ground. A cow carcass lay in his path, completely stripped of muscle and blood, so white that flared with the torch’s reflection. It was easy to follow the trail the goblins had left.

The path was quiet; unguarded. It seemed strange, but so too had a lot of things in Doyle. He carried on uninterrupted. Or… not.

There was commotion to his left – almost indistinguishable shapes in the knee-high grass. His eyesight was bad in faint light, but his hearing picked up the howling of a goblin as it tore through the grass. The yelps got louder, and Ferael could now see the squat creature dashing through the unharvested field in his direction. He began walking swiftly towards it, and, as the green skin came within a few paces, he thrust out one arm. The butt of the torch he held connected with the tip of the savage’s nose, and the creature pitted backwards and landed at his feet.

Satisfied that he had prevented the goblin’s swift flight, Ferael looked up. It seemed whatever had disturbed the measly scavenger into fleeing had not followed, and so he returned his hard gaze to the goblin. His hand rested upon the knife at his belt.

“You goin’ somewhere, little goblin?”

[MadGoblin]

(OOC: Bunnying pre-approved by Scars with a low down payment)

The twisted form writhed angrily on the darkened earth, flailing and swinging its limbs. Pathetic as the wimpy fit was, it got the buccaneer to take a step back.

"Now, c'mon, ya blind, stinkin' pinklin'," growled Bogg among a sea of slurred cursing and swears. "How could ya think I am one o' dose li'l pukes? Dey ain't worth it ta piss 'pon!" The sailor was confused at first before realizing the sounds produced by the thing he stood over were actual words. The torch's light did reveal the truth about the captive's skin color, dull and gray, but it also unveiled just how horrible of a creature the maniac was. Even if it were a goblin, it was hideously deformed. He did not want to let it go if it could be a threat to the village, yet killing it could be the wrong solution as well. A smile soon washed the concern from his face as his thoughts went into motion.

"Okay then," bartered the brigand, sheathing his steel, "if you ain't a goblin, then you would have no problem killin' a bloody lot of them as proof that they mean nothin' to you." In this way, he could keep an eye on the mysterious being while finding out whether it was vile or righteous at the same time. Plus, any hits not taken by himself would mean one less wound to heal. However, this request challenged everything good and decent within the Ghobling. Fortunately, this list was comprised of a single caterpillar he had found among the dried stalks and devoured, which could bear no weight in his moral dilemma. It happened to be the manifestation of the great divine being Sukaphi in her long since prophetized return to the world, but this was another story all together.

"Hey, no sweat, bud," agreed the hideous lunatic haphazardly, "as long as de'e be a guzzle fer m' gullet in da end."

"Yyyyyyes?" Uncertainly agreed the pirate, hoping that he could fulfill whatever the unclear demand was. With a wary eye set on the maniac, the seafarer watched carefully as his new companion rose and headed a few paces in front to the barn. Concern over the gray skin waned as the great doors were approached. Even those with unattuned ears could pick up the wretched cries and shrills from the imps within. With a racing heart readied for action, a swift kick blasted open the hatch as the wanderer from the waves burst into the dark space. Bimblesnaff stood at the threshold, however, as the doors swung back closed. His attention was elsewhere, upward. Frontal assaults were not the tactic of the small and weak, and the element of surprise worked well for the cowardly. Wrapping his grimy talons around the warped planks of the barn's walls, the fiend scaled the side, approaching an old window blackened with years of uncleaned dirt.

[Scars]

They walked for less than a minute before arriving at the barn in which dwelled the goblin creatures, or at least some of them. There was little doubt as to that fact, for their cackles and cries were like the callings of birds gripped with madness. He had left The Black Flower with little thought, and it was only now he began to regret his incautiousness – a quality of his that should have seen him dead by now. Still, it seemed whatever God guided him wished differently. And Ferael believed someone was watching over him. Not in a compassionate manner, but a manipulative one. No man held luck enough to survive what he had been through, time and time again. It did not lend him confidence, only saddened him to the point where he wondered if his life were really his own. Such thoughts brought him no good, though. In the end, the only way was forward.

The barn was huge, as barns went. He had worked on a farm, once, and he’d never been in a barn this big. The door stood double his height, and the tip of the slanted roof was that again. It was all constructed of oak, as far as he could tell, with two square windows set symmetrically on either side, far too high to reach. It seemed thick; sturdy. He wrapped a rough hand around the inset handle, and was suddenly enveloped in darkness. His torch had burned the last of its fuel.

Shit.

He discarded the lantern and fell silent, his breaths coming slow but his heart rate doubled. Paying little attention to his newfound companion, of race unknown, Ferael pulled lightly on the door handle. It did not move. With a frown, he tugged a little harder, yet it stayed fast, as if something held it closed from within. He took a step back, a deep breath washing his lungs cold, and threw himself forward, one boot out ahead of him. The heavy door immediately swung inward, and with his momentum he stumbled into the darkness. All went silent. All was still.

The air was dry, stale, reminding him of somewhere in his early childhood – an attic in which he’d used to play, maybe. The air reeked of blood and shit, two odours he’d had more than enough experience with. He had never come face-to-face with a goblin, but he knew of their kind - dirty, grotesque, foul-smelling creatures, waist high and as vicious as intelligent life came. If he could have conjured up an image of their lair, this was it. Strange, then, that there was no hissing, no tapping footfalls. He glanced behind him, yet as far as he could sense the Ghobling had gone. Probably fled, the cowardly, vile creature.

Ferael took a wary step forward, one hand on each of his weapons. Two rocks collided, and a flame from lit straw appeared before him, held by a tiny green hand. Red eyes peered through, a wicked, yellow toothed grin spreading as the words hissed into his ears: “I’m gonna eat you!”

Blades were out in a flash, the longer of the two tearing limb from torso as Ferael launched himself into an attack on the close standing goblin. That wicked grin soon became a panicked stare, and it would be that way for eternity. The goblin’s head hit the ground with a thud. It would have rolled away had not an arrow skewered it to the floor. Another skittered across the ground inches from the pirate’s feet. Then he stopped, the light that had allowed him vision having extinguished with its holder’s death - darkness descending upon him once more.

In sync, six torches burnt on the upper level of the barn in an ‘n’-shaped arrangement, illuminating the area sufficiently for Ferael to calculate his opponents and his surroundings. Six archers occupied the upper floor, each one positioned behind a torch. However, their sharp-tipped arrows were not his main concern. A horde of goblins came like spiders from the upper level, their cackles echoing from wall to wall as they descended wooden ladders and gathered before Ferael. In seconds he faced what he estimated to be fifteen of the creatures, each taunting him with snarls and weapons, some of which were clearly just farming tools or pieces of rusted metal. Still, they could inflict damage. He would not be able to fend off so many, when they decided to swarm him.

Whether courageous or dim-witted, the first attacked without support, running forward and swinging at his torso with a bent, dully coloured machete. Ferael parried with ease, pushing the blade away with his own and thrusting forward with his other arm. The knife-point buried itself in the goblin’s eye socket and it retreated screaming, falling over the decapitated head of the first to die. A few seconds passed in silence, and then one of the front-most yelled something in a language Ferael didn’t understand. They advanced without hesitation.

On quick feet the pirate moved forward, charging to the source of the command as the creature’s moved to encircle him and then closed in. His scimitar moved to parry swords and other weapons. He reached the first goblin before him – the one who appeared adorned with jewellery and was likely more important than the rest – and punched out with his left hand. The butt of his steel dagger met the creature’s nose and sent it tumbling backwards. Two more fell with its weight, and he stepped over their bodies, carving lines in those to either side as he passed. He felt the nipping of sharp metal catching his back and legs as he ran, but it did not slow him. Only one stood between Ferael and what he sought. He leapt for it, and used the last goblins head as a step.

His hands clasped the middle rung of a sturdy ladder, his body thumping against it. Ferael climbed quickly, kicking out below him as one of the creature’s attempted pursuit. Its neck snapped cleanly, and it fell to the ground below. Others followed in its place, but he was away. Ferael pulled himself onto the upper level, and as he stood an arrow passed between his arm and his ribs, slicing into his torso as it flew by. The pirate winced, but did not falter in his actions. He moved quickly towards the closest of the archers on his left side. If he did not kill them, they would kill him.

The first panicked as he approached, fumbling with an arrow and dropping the projectile between his legs. The goblin bent down to retrieve it, but before he could withdraw Ferael’s boot sent him onto his back, his weapon falling a few feet away. The pirate advanced quickly, stamping on the fallen goblin’s chest and breaking ribs as he passed to make sure he was no longer a threat. The second nocked an arrow and aimed for the human’s heart, but he was far too slow in releasing his grip on the bow string. Ferael pushed the longbow aside and carved an inch deep vertical gash down his chest. Before the creature could fall an arrow pierced his flesh from back to front. The last of the three on that side of the barn cowered as Ferael moved towards him, and when only a few paces separated them threw himself from the ledge to the floor below.

Ferael moved back and retrieved the bow that had been used by the second of the archers. Goblins had begun climbing to the upper level, and three archers still occupied it on the opposite side of the barn. He was no elf, but he could fire a bow with some kind of accuracy. He took position behind one of the burning torches, keeping an eye on those pursuing his path, and began firing on those on the other side. Hopefully, his companion was not as cowardly as he suspected. If he was right in that estimation, death would surely take him tonight.

[MadGoblin]

Steadily, the colorless Ghobling crawled his way along to the glass frame. Peering through the dirtied glass best he could, Bimblesnaff was not able to make out much in the poorly lit area, and what little light was within the barn soon faded away. Clenching a tight fist, Bogg braced himself for the pain of shattered glass and cutting shards as he smashed a clawed mitt onto the window. Slowly prying open his tightly closed eyes after the lack of sensation audible or excruciating, he found the pane to have merely fallen through its rotten and aged frame. With a shrug, he swung himself inside.

A soft landing found him in a store of hay. Pushed aside to make room for their ungodly activities, the straw had piled by the window. The maniac stayed as still as possible while his underearth eyes surveyed the scene, trying to pass himself off as a pile of rags. This disguise suited him as his garb was little better, if at all, than such. A horde of the repulsive, tiny imps darted to and fro in the upper levels. The numbers were positioning themselves for an ambush. Their eyes were only focused on what stood higher than a man's knee, so the lunatic would be safe to blend into the shadowed crowd. Of course, comparison to these inferior specimens was always an insult to the fiend; therefore, things were done his own way. Slinking up to a closer goblin, who was deeply concentrating on the human intruder, the attack was sprung.

"Nyuk nyuk nyuk!" That would not sound like much to human ears, but all green skins knew those words to be the foulest. Their exact translation out of the more vulgar tongues was never properly made, but it had something to do with atonement, armbands, and dead babies. Hearing these most disgraceful words uttered, the ensnared wretch turned in anger only to catch two fingers in his eye. An eye gouge was painful enough, but, when the fingers end in sharpened talons, it exceeds its previous bounds. Flailing and cursing, the stricken goblinoid held his bleeding eyes as his attacker slipped back into hiding. As another of the petty beings came to check on its companion, which included the right to laugh at its affliction, the blinded one lashed out at who it suspected of perpetrating the deed. A brawl was about to start between them and a few others pulled into the conflict, but their personal struggle had to be postponed as a brilliant light filled the loft. That was their signal to storm the intruder. Like a tide of putrid flesh, the puny creatures flooded to the lower level. Driven by their orders, few paid notice to the now fully illuminated Bimblesnaff and his inappropriate presence. They were helped to make this realization as he began dwindling their numbers.

Marching along side with the parade to the first floor, Bogg sprung off the wall rather than scale down it. Flipping backwards, his wiry arms reached out as his body turned upside down. His thick claws clamped onto one of the many goblins' faces. The grimy nails sunk deep into the flesh, drawing six streams of blood. Kicking out his legs, he spun his body around and raked the talons about the face and head, shredding what use to be a face. With each passing revolution, his body angled closer to the floor. By this descent, a sweeping ring cleared out a large section from the marching line. The maniac released the green skin's head, once scarcely no flesh was left covering it, and had himself projected outwards with limbs stiffly extending. The spinning cross plowed through a wide line of the imps, terminating in a tangled pile of wicked body parts. It was not the cleanest of maneuvers, a fact Bimblesnaff became aware of as he pulled a stray knife out of his thigh, but it got a lot of the task done lazily, precisely his way.

As the lunatic wormed his way out of the unconscious mess, one of the goblins finally had the intelligence to address his nuisance. Armed with a large knife, which comparatively amounted to a short sword, the vile creature lunged at the equally vile creature. The edge skimmed by his gaunt torso and would have scored a hit on a wider being. The sharpness of the blade was not fully realized by the Ghobling as he grabbed the weapon to prevent its further use. It sliced through his palm but still was knocked to the floor. Directing a harsh hiss at the disarmed wretch, the lunatic smashed his bloody palm into its face. The corrupted fluids seared its eyes as the imp screamed and clawed, trying to free itself with no such luck. An evil eye of the maniac picked up the nearby ledge and sinister planning went into work. Charging with a hobbled gait towards the edge while dragging the pleading body, it was cast far out onto the bottom floor. As the corpse to be writhed with the little life left in its frame, more ill deeds were thought up to hazard its fate line. A series of cables hung from the rafters, part of an old pulley system to transport items between the floor. In their current state, they could be used to get him even higher up.

"He's too far away!" called out a random green skin, trying to curb the insane act from being performed as the demented intruder ascended the cords.

"No," contradicted the Ghobling with cold resolve, "he's not." Jumping from the top rope, he arched his body to have his belly connect with the far below goblin. As he fell downwards, his companion was ascending, switching their positions. The plummet sped faster, and Bogg soon splashed upon the broken imp, finishing off what little of his bones were intact. The surroundings were splashed as well, only in a different manner. The freak bounced off after contact and crashed into a pillar with his back. Slowly, he slide down from the beam onto his head and folded over. "Why did I t'ink dat was a good idea 'gain?" grunted the maniac. Clutching his head, some dampness caught his attention. "Ee," he groaned upon beholding the deep wound in his right hand, "I sure hope dis dun stay fer long." Four shadows loomed over him upon uttering these words. Bending the brim of his hat out of his view, he learned that all of these were cast by the limbs of a single, stocky goblin.


Unlike the rest of the pests, this figure was decorated. Many battle scars and other badges of honor were about its person. It was either this or the green skin had many problems shaving. The most notable of these complications would be its general lack of hair to shave. Its chin was flat and broad, melding into its neck and body. Its chest was wide, spanning the same as a full grown man's breadth. Short, powerful arms and legs like trunks hung from its body. Its only wardrobe was the skin of its highest praised prey, an elf. It did not look flattering to wear, yet there was something intimidating about being confronted by goblin that donned the stretch face of an elven maiden over its crotch. This nearly impressive display carried with it the threatening armament of a ... dung covered spade.

It would seem that weapon outfitting was done on a first come, first served basis. Nevertheless, the meager and befouled tool was wielded with enough devastating prowess. The bulky fiend twirled the scoop about his hands, switching it between the two without slowing its pace. Passing it a few times behind his neck, it was braced forward again, ready for action. With an overconfident scoff, Bimblesnaff rose to a foot, done in order to keep weight off the wounded leg, and smugly reached around to unlatch his massive hook blade. Fiddling with the release, he damned himself for not knowing exactly how the bent sword was kept on his back in the first place. The beefy brute laughed as his foe fiddled with the stuck metal and advanced regardless. Hopping backwards on one foot, as Bogg pulled on the handle, he could manage to make the curved point swing up a little. With this he would have to make due.

The lunatic bound forward with the tip thrusting repeatedly to show that he could still battle. The tactic's other intent, to scare away the attacker and have a legion of lovely maidens marvel at his greatness thus building a shrine in his honor, was not met. The shovel was smashed downward without care for the attempts at intimidation, its path narrowly escaped by Bogg. Skipping back in place, a stab was parried on the tool's handle, which was then swatted down at the Ghobling's crown. Shrieking an annoyed growl, the maniac sprung with the weapon pushed outward. Quickly moving the spade, its rusted head was pushed into the oncoming point. As the two pieces of metal collided, the force on the strapped weapon spun its owner about midair. The hook blade was brought around overhead onto the oaf's shoulder, slicing deep through the rancid flesh. The wounded goblin recoiled in torment, grabbing his fresh cut. The act left him wide open to the wicked will of Bimblesnaff's twisted thoughts. Staying with what worked, he executed another razor-sided cartwheel. Flesh was pierced as dark blood billowed from new wound. The maniac grinned viciously until he realized it was his own.

"What now?" the bewildered freak questioned, presumably, the universe as a whole for the answer. An arrow was sticking out of his arm, and it was letting a nasty blood stain get onto his favorite, and only, jacket. The presence of archers had been forgotten by the gray skin; however, it was now a fact he planned to utilize. "Hey, ya missed," called out the fiend to those stationed on the floor above. "Ya dun wanna hit me. 'Tis 'im we a'e aftah!" The six shooters were more than a bit puzzled by the statement, looking to each other for the solution. The resort should have been too stupid to have worked, yet goblins always were too stupid to still be a thriving species. "C'mon, ya guys! Who dun belong in dis pictah?" Their sharply trained eyes passed between the twisted and gray fiend with a tail to the large and green hulk. Neither truly resembled the rest of the gang. "Ya already shot me once. Ya shouldn't do it 'gain," he added while pulling out the shaft, trying to guilt them into a poor decision. As their arrows were notched for the next round of fire, the fiend bound out from the open. The bow men were split on their final resolution with half taking each target. The confused volley had been entirely escaped by the maniac who foresaw its arrival. Unfortunately for the larger goblin, the blitz could not be called off by the rest of the pack soon enough.

[Scars]

Arrows flew back and forth like fish leaping from water, most hitting the walls but others falling short. Every now and again one of the steel-tipped projectiles would pierce the green hide of a goblin, and fewer yet buried themselves beneath the pale skin of the reckless human. In fact, only scratches marred Ferael Finn’s body from the incoming bow fire, some deeper than others but none so serious that the brigand gave any of the wounds a second thought. Even though every ten seconds he was bombarded with pieces of sharp metal on sticks, he felt no real danger – their accuracy was terrible, and one by one, they were falling. Somehow, in the heat of battle, Ferael was enjoying himself.

He noticed commotion below, and knew immediately that his new-found companion had accompanied him into the building. Together, it seemed they were causing a riot, for the goblins appeared to have lost all sense of organisation. They were everywhere, running and shouting and waving their hands as if they had all been assigned the same task of calming the rowdy mob. Of all that had confronted him upon his arrival, hardly any had chased him to the higher tier.

He was enjoying himself, until he felt cold steel slice its way slowly across his right forearm, and warm blood tickle his skin as it rolled down to his fingertips. He winced, his muscles going limp for a few seconds; the arrow he had nocked firing into the crowd below. In his carelessness he had let one of the green skins sneak up on him, and now his entire right arm tensed against his will. He gritted his teeth with the rush of pain that assailed him, and spun quickly to his left.

His elbow caught the creature in the side of its head, the knife that had cut deep into his flesh tearing at his leather coat before it dropped to the wooden floor next to its wielder. The goblin toppled and landed heavily, then quickly crawled away before spinning onto its back and holding out one small grimy hand in a plea of mercy. The pirate rose from his kneeling position, retrieving a single arrow from the many he had left and holding it tip down as he advanced on the lone goblin. However, it appeared it was not alone.

Another jumped in front of its fallen comrade, a burning torch in one hand that it waved back and forth to keep the human at bay. Ferael took a step back, the flames licking the air immediately in front of him.

“Back further y’meddlesome freak!” the goblin shouted, poking out with the flaming stick as if it were an epee. He opened his mouth to begin a new sentence, but the words never left his pale green lips. An arrow skewered the creature from one ear to the other, and he crumpled like a ragdoll to the ground. Behind him, the now solitary goblin still begged with one hand outstretched, until he realised that the torch had fallen at his side, and the torn shirt that covered his upper body was on fire. It did not help anyone that the dim-witted creature had come to rest against a pile of dry straw. A flame became a fire, and there was no way to stop it spreading.

[MadGoblin]

Havoc overtook the loft as flames began to spread through the aged and dried planks. Every dark nook was brightly illuminated by the smoldering tongues. The maniac peeked out of his hiding place, beholding all the madness that was taking place. A single tear came to his eye.

"Beautiful," he choked out while fighting the urge to run into the frenzy himself. The notion, after appearing, struck him as odd. He had never the slightest hunger for battle before, yet now he seemed compelled to cause and receive punishment. Causing it, strangely, came to him as the stranger realization as he did not know where such tactics came from. With his senses recovered, what few he ever had, the lunatic laid low in his shelter to wait for a quiet moment to flee. The chance never arrived as he was sapped in the back of the head. The blazing light had given away his location quite easily. Forgetting the course of action decreed scant few moments ago, his lust for violence rekindled.

Throwing his arms behind himself, he grasped on to the goblin that sneaked behind him. It proved too heavy for him to hurtle overhead, or Bogg proved too weak, so he spun himself over the imp instead. Swinging around over its shoulders, the Ghobling delivered a powerful kick with both of his clawed feet, knocking the attacker staggering out to the open barn floor. Pulling out the hook blade, which finally gave way from its holster, Bimblesnaff charged with a raging shriek. His path was not at the bold pest that struck him but was slightly askew to him. Dragging the blade behind, the fiend leapt into the air with his body and weapon stretched out flat. The corner of his bent sword caught onto the neck of the goblin, and the wielder and weapon spun around the axial victim as bandaged talons lashed out at those within reach. Forces eventually expelled the homicidal gray skin from the circle. Pointing out a single toe, the digit was driven far into another goblin's eye as the purple coated freak was propelled towards it. Rebounding from the skewed green skin with his other foot, Bogg somersaulted backwards, catching himself on the floor by bracing the flat end of his metal nightmare against the ground or whatever bodies were caught within the powerful cleaves.

One of the panicked goblinoids had summoned the courage to seize an opportunity and wound the rampaging maniac. Taking hold of an old, busted chair that had been seeded with the spreading fire, it charged the lunatic during his acrobatic display. Witnessing the approaching flame, Bimblesnaff balanced himself upside down onto his sword on his next flip and shifted his weight to tip the focus to its corner. Putting his legs together and directed upwards, he dropped them in a strong, sweeping motion, knocking the burning furniture from the goblin's hands and into its face. With an explosion of searing splinters dimming behind himself, the fiend landed in a readied stance and glanced out from beneath his brim to see who else was left standing in his immediate area. A single imp remained, frozen still. It was the same one that had surprised him from behind before. With a laugh, the gray one relaxed his pose as a tide of red flooded over the goblin's body from its gashed neck as its drained head rolled off its shoulders.

[Scars]

((Oh my! A post! Please don’t faint or anything.))

* * *

The flames had engulfed one side of the upper decking, the dry wood serving only to quicken the spreading of fire. The roof had caught alight as well, and one supporting beam had fallen to the floor below, setting fire to the thin layer of straw on the ground. The pillars that supported the second tier were slowly turning to ashes, the ladders that were used to climb between the two levels falling one by one. The barn was becoming a furnace, the smoke growing thicker with every second that passed.

And in the heart of the blaze stood Ferael Finn, panic gripping him as the floor seemed to fall away piece by piece. There was one ladder left, as far as he could make out, on the other side of the barn. However, the flames had caught the front wall, and he judged his chances of reaching it before it fell away to be slim. Sheathing his sword the buccaneer ran, the flames licking at his boots from beneath the walkway, coughing as his lungs filled with smoke. He turned the first corner so quickly that he pitched himself into the back wall. As he recovered, a section of the roof fell away and crashed at his feet. The fire spread further, and the bandit was trapped.

His options were limited. He thought about jumping the debris and continuing towards the ladder, but the flames were rising to his height and higher, and the ladder would surely crumble to nothing before he reached it. Then he looked up. The flames were slowly tearing the barn apart, and there was no salvation in climbing higher, only a farther fall. The only option left to him, then, other than burning where he stood, was down.

Ferael moved to the edge of the platform and looked to the floor below. There were areas that had not caught alight, but he estimated the drop to be… big. He watched as goblins fled to and fro beneath him, some leaving the barn and others scampering in random directions around it. He glanced behind him again. The flames were rising higher and spreading to engulf the entire upper tier.

Ferael Finn took a deep breath, coughed hard, and then jumped.

He landed with as much grace as a rock, his legs folding beneath him as he collapsed. A fit of coughs and splutters assailed the pirate as he climbed to his feet, where he took a moment to check for any approaching green skins and move away from the fires closest to where he had landed. They were too busy trying to save themselves to take notice of him, or, it seemed, his grey-skinned companion.

Bimblesnaff Bogg stood triumphant in the centre of the barn, a mess of fallen goblins scattered around him. His sickle-shaped sword was coated in the blood of his seemingly closely-related enemies, a smile stretched across his ugly face. It seemed it had been Bimblesnaff who had kept the goblins at bay, and therefore held true to his word. They were almost trying to avoid the ghobling, and Ferael could guess why.

“Oit, ugly, we better take leave!” he called to Bimblesnaff over the crackling of flames and screaming of goblins.

The smell of burning hair and cooking meat was overwhelmingly nauseating. The two unlikely heroes had ridden Doyle of the menace that plagued it. He made his way towards the exit, jumping each patch of fire that blocked his path.

[MadGoblin]

The maniac stood, cackling to himself, among the smoke and falling embers, lost in his frenzy. The voice of the pirate called out to him and pulled him from the confines of his own delirium and back into reality, or the reality he normally imposed upon himself.

"Holy shit!" understated the Ghobling upon fully taking in the inferno that had grown around him. "When'd all dat get he'e?" Without a trace of delay, he accompanied the seafarer in a hasty exit. They were not alone in their retreat. Already waiting for their departure outside were the surviving goblins. Despite the massacre at the hands of the two exterminators, a surprising number still remained. That was where their strength lied, in their numbers. The horde stayed back, arched around the dwindling barn. An impenetrable line of ranks consisting of claws and tools kept them locked in, but it did not advance on them. A sole imp stood out from the legion with a wide, toothy smile that spilled out wider than his head.

"I'm gonna eat you," the devil hissed through its misaligned teeth, coldly staring at the oceanic bandit with its blood red eyes. Before Finn could question its intent, the green skin pulled back the neck of its shirt, opening up the front. A fresh scar was revealed encompassing its neck, still wet with crimson. Under it lied several other, older scars, crossing it at different angles and positions. One loop was not engraved into its hide, a sturdy belt at its waist. On its wide, brass buckle was an icon of a snake with seven heads, the mythic Hydra. "What can I say? It's a cutthroat business bein' in charge of a bunch of treacherous bastards who stab you in the back at e'ery given chance. I guess I just manage to keep m' head about me an' on my shoulders." Pulling out a massive club, it swatted its hand. "Now, you boys ha'e been raisin' hell for m' gang an' me, an' we don't like it one bit. How 'bout we take care of this once an' for all?"

"What a moron," Bogg quipped to himself. "Snakes dun got nine heads." His stupidity was doubly proven in one statement, a new record. "Just ya stand back, scallywag," insisted the fiend with his eyes set on the belt, entranced by all things shiny in nature. "I'll take on dis chump all by m'self."

Five minutes later, a battered lunatic managed to choke up, "'Kay, I t'ink I softened 'em up enough fer ya," along with a fair amount of blood. Pulling himself along on his belly, he keeled over before fully removing himself from the battlefield. "Ha'e at 'em."

Four Minutes and Thirty Seconds Prior...

"Yep," reassured Bimblesnaff, "he'll be a piece o' baby-cake ta lick an' snag dat belt from." As he drew near his opponent in a defensive stance, the front of the barn's frame, sufficiently burned of all its planks, separated from the rest, tilting forward. The flaming beams crashed onto the earth, boxing in the already surrounded combatants. A few of the closer goblins were actually crushed in its descent, but none seemed to mind. It only meant unobstructed views for those behind the lost. Riotously, the band cheered their leader, the insurmountable Cutthroat and showered the challenger with hisses and jeers. From out of the fiery wreakage, a large bell was burned out from its holder. As it tumbled down to the ground, it struck true and chimed loud thrice. The battle was to begin.

The head of the pack lunged forward, swinging down his cudgel from above. Catching the weapon on the flat top of his bent blade, the gray skin drove his weapon forward and through the neck of his adversary. The vicious grin turned upside down as it rolled from the body. In triumph, the Ghobling rose his arms and faced his "adoring" audience. They were not at all moved by the decapitation, and many were calling for buckets of various food stuffs to be brought to the flaming ringside as though they expected more bout to follow.

"I ain't gonna fight someone wit'out a head," blurted out the confused fool. "Ya can do a lot o' t'in's to a headless t'in', but fightin' ain't one o' dem." Unbeknownst to him, the body still stood. Three of the seven pairs of eyes emblazoned upon the buckle lit up with one set dimming out long before the other two. As a massive globule of blood shot from the opened neck, the thick sphere fluctuated in midair, changing shape. As it collided with the spout that bore it, the mass did not splatter but bounced, wobbling like a sack of gelatin. More definition came still as the shape of the old head returned, still wearing the same menacing grin in its thought final moment, and it grafted itself onto the trunk.

"I'm gonna eat you," repeated Cutthroat, who mashed its mace into the side of the lunatic's face when he turned in reaction to the threat. While the scrawny freak still sailed through the air, the momentum of the blow struck by the vermin continued to revolve its body as well as pull it forward. Three more blows were had upon the tailed one before he was allowed to return to the earth. Shaking his head clear of what the thought-delusion had just struck him, the maniac found himself pressed against the ground as that very figment stomped onto his back before just as quickly leaping off.

"Hey," protested Bogg, "be dead 'gain. Ya're dead." Taking a wide swing with his hook blade, the strike was jumped by the accused corpse while landing a drop kick. "Stop dat," continued to complain the fool as he lifted himself up. "I said ya we'e dead. Now be it!" Charging at the formerly beheaded one, he carried it to the edge of the squared circle, grinding its back into the the still smoldering wood, but, between these, Bimblesnaff had placed his hand to secure his grip. Pulling out his hand for a quick inspection, the bandages wrapped around his claw were smoking slightly as a small ignition built. "Wooo!" howled the fiend in a paining panic, swatting the back of his hand against the leader's chest hard in an attempt to extinguish it. Again, wailing sounded as another chop was delivered. "Wooo! Wooo!" A particularly outspoken goblin, a short, squat one in a stolen suit that would be considered refined had it not been worn ragged over years of never being removed, became infuriated with the repeated attacks in the corner. Picking up a gimmick sack of gold, the short imp batted the maniac over the head. It was only a gimmick bag as, despite having the poorly written letters "glod" on the outside, there was no treasure held within, only rocks, to keep up the illusion of its wealthiness.

"Ow! Hey, no outside intahfe'ence," demanded the gray skin. Grabbing at the grubby runt, it managed to slip away before receiving its just punishment where it continued its sale of props to the crowd, being hollowed out human hands that could be worn over smaller goblin hands and sported encouraging slogans to their champion, such as "Gook is #1" or "Half price on all beef." It did not matter the words inked onto them as none of the spectators could read anywise. The distraction served its purpose as, while bent over the searing pillar, Cutthroat slammed the lunatic's face into the burnt splinters. Climbing upon the ashen wreckage, standing over his foe, the leader made a cocky display, showing off for his fans. Too long was spent dawdling as Bogg got his head up, and it went up between the goblin's legs, dead center, more than once. The audience moaned in sympathetic pain as their hero winced with each blow. Mounting the frozen opponent onto his shoulders, Bogg ascended the fallen frame. Spreading out his arms, he leapt backwards with the intent of crushing the riding imp between the earth and himself; however, the maneuver was reversed. The devil pushed the head past its legs and sat upon them, driving the freak's skull into the ground first with the full force of its weight. The crowd favorite roared defiantly, brandishing its stick to the eager onlookers.

Barely managing to pull himself from the ground, the Ghobling looked at Finn and struggled to say, "'Kay, I t'ink I softened 'em up..." With an outreached hand, he awaited the tag of his partner.

[Scars]

The brigand had not expected any resistance upon escaping the burning wreckage, but his expectations went wholly unfulfilled. Sweat stung his eyes as he surveyed the assembly of goblins that had formed a wall between the two heroes and their freedom, though he couldn’t be sure whether it was the flames licking at his back or the four dozen sharp objects reflecting them that prompted the salty beads to roll from his forehead. A sigh escaped Ferael’s lips seconds before the leader of the pack stepped forward and spoke, revealing his scars – a form of intimidation that unsurprisingly didn’t work on the pirate – and his weapon of choice – a large club, which was a little more intimidating – to the duo. It was as Bimblesnaff Bogg stepped forward and spoke the words, "Just ya stand back, scallywag," that Ferael released an untimely cough, and another, until he broke out into a fit of splutters that saw him fall to one knee with a soot-clad hand over his mouth.

The brigand remained in his private hell until a bellow from close-by alerted him to the ghoblings failure. Bimblesnaff lay immobile upon the ground, straying embers singeing the dying grass around his beaten body. Cutthroat stood feet away, cudgel thrust into the air in triumph as he soaked up the praise from his subordinates. Ferael climbed to his feet with some trouble, and held his scimitar out before him until Cutthroat’s gaze landed upon it. The goblin leader growled in delight as he advanced on the pirate slowly, truncheon at the ready, remarks such as “Bash his face up!” and “I can’t wait to eat that!” urging him on.

Ferael ducked quickly as the club swiped at his head, throwing himself forward as he did so and landing a heavy shoulder in the goblins’ stomach. Cutthroat stumbled back, but regained his balance before the seafarer did. A crunch sounded as Ferael’s right arm took a blow from the huge wooden bat and was slammed into the ground, his sword dropping in front of him. A huge eruption of cheers sounded from the crowd as the goblin chief lifted his weapon to strike another blow. Ferael quickly threw himself to the right, swiping his scimitar from the ground with his undamaged hand as he did so. He rolled to his knees as Cutthroat’s second attack rebounded off of the sort earth and jolted up his arms, and, with his injured arm held close to his chest, Ferael thrust forwards and drew blood just below the goblin’s left shoulder. Cutthroat drew back in surprise and the crowd quietened.

Brows angled in irritation, the green skin advanced quickly, swinging his cudgel back and forth in an attempt to take the pirate’s head from his shoulders. Ferael took one step back for every one that Cutthroat took forwards until he felt the heat on his back. Having no other options, he attempted to attack between the wild swings. The bandit’s arm was pushed aside as blade connected with club, and he was left defenceless as the returning swing shattered ribs and sent him hurling backwards.

Ferael’s flight ended as he crashed into the huge bell that had fallen from the barn to litter the battlefield, his scimitar flying from his hand and the air knocked completely from his lungs. The pirate’s eyes rolled back in his head as Cutthroat charged wildly to finish him. However, luck seemed to be on the seafarer’s side. As he ran, the goblin chief stumbled over something and fell, skidding along the ground on his chin. He came to rest at Ferael’s feet, and none could have foreseen his extraordinary demise. The bell had rocked backwards slightly with Ferael’s impact, and only then did it pitch forwards again. An echoed yelp silenced the spectators entirely, and as the pirate fell to the floor, the bell chimed thrice. Then all was silent.

[MadGoblin]

After switching in his partner, the Ghobling fell to the earth with labored breathing. In need of rest and replenishment, his flask of near poisonous ale was taken out, and several gulps were quaffed. The burning fluids soothed and re-energized his body while bloody warfare waged in the background. As he moved to replace the skin's cap, it stumbled from his tired claws. With a groan, he rolled over to seek it out. A swing of a club passed straight over his head as he crawled through the torn up grass. The delicate dance of battle stepped around his twisting frame as he scoured for the lost lid. Finding it among the blades, as his wrapped hand outstretched to reclaim it, a foot swooped by and knocked it over to the far burnt beam border.

Groaning more, the lunatic rolled his sore body along the hard ground until he crashed into the flaming timbers. Propping himself up on the fallen framework, he set to stopper up his treasured bounty, but, before doing so, one last delicious swig was taken. As he savored the mouthful, his eyes wandered to the sideline. There, a spectator had forgotten the rules of a no holds bar, two against one, death match and was attempting to even the odds with his crossbow. Wanting no such association with a fair fight, the drink was sprayed out the gray goblin's lipless mouth and drenched the would be attacker. Distracted and peeved, the imp turned the sight on Bogg who, despite staring down a bolt shaft, was unshaken by the threat. Whipping around his bent blade, it lashed forward. Granted, the offending green skin was no where near within reach, but this was not the maniac's aim. The edge crashed into the smoldering wood, erupting a wave of glowing embers. These reacted with the trailing mist in the air and, to a more painful extent, the alcohol on the goblin's face. The flinch, and subsequent wailing, tightened its trigger finger and sent an arrow sailing through the battlefield. It cleared the dueling duo, sliding between them during a brief parting of their conflict, and pegged one of the vermin's allies square in the forehead. Its supposed friends were all too eager to fill the vacated space. Although the burnt one survived at least, it would never line up sights again. The surrounding audience got the message and backed away, respecting the rules of the game.

With his enemies staying off, even though they still chanted, "Gook's gonna eat you!", Bimblesnaff finally went to recap his flask. As he guided it with thick talons down to the ale skin, the searing pain from leaning against the smoking structure registered at long last. With a squeak and a cringe, the crazed fool threw himself off the wood and the cap into the air. His eyes mournfully traced its flight and shed a slight tear. It was not over the loss but for what discomforts he would soon experience. Sighing helplessly, he dropped back to the ground, which was uncomfortable enough. Gradually revolving his body over the dirt as his pain threshold would allow, he made his way to where it landed, nearby the fallen bell. His common ally and foe were heading that direction as well. Then, more pain was felt than his aching bones grinding across the earth. While he struggled to get himself rolled over, a sharp pain stabbed him in the back. The chieftain was the culprit, unaware of the Ghobling's presence. The headsman's dread had kicked the laying fiend and stumbled forward. As the freak rubbed his stricken back to ease the pain, a loud crash was heard that ushered in dead silence.

The roaring crowd, now with sealed lips, stared blankly on. The seafarer was dumbfounded. The Ghobling, dumb, plucked the sought lid from the grass and replaced it before realizing something more pressing was transpiring. The bell, in the course of the two's battle, had fallen over. The pirate had ran into and offset its balance before it tilted over. Cutthroat, fate deemed, would be in its shadow. The massive metal instrument laid over the green army's commander, crushing its chest more that it pinned it to the ground. The body writhed and struggled as life refused to leave it. The enchanted relic offered life, but it only secured it one way. Cutthroat had been fortunate that death only sought him one way before. Against a crushed body, its powers were worthless. A fading glow could be seen on the buckle as another pair of eyes dimmed. After more unsuccessful flailing, the last set burned bright before going black. With the loss of lights, the buckle's gleam vanished. Cracks ran down its form and reduced it to dust. The body ceased to move and entered an overdue and eternal rest.