MBGSP chpt 51 thru 53

Hey goblin fans!

Just wanted to preface this next update with a quick note. When I wrote this sequence, the chapters following the crashed glider and capture by the javeline hadn't been released yet, and I honestly hadn't anticipated the visceral reaction to such a short prisoner arc. I was glad that people had such strong feelings for the well being of the the tribe and Apollo himself, but worried that I had alienated some readers. While on the surface, this might start somewhat similar, it's got a very different purpose in the grand scheme of things and ultimately ends with different ramifications for the tribe.

Chapter 51 - King Ringo

<Your tribe has decreased to 139 members>

<Your tribe is dismayed from heavy losses, a spawning penalty has been applied.>

<Your tribe is distraught due to their missing king, no variant goblins were born.>

<Your tribe has increased to 142 members.>

“Boss, boss! Wake up!”

I came to with a wicked headache and rubbed the spot of blackened fur on my belly where the spear had singed me. I was in a loose cage woven from bog tree branches and vines. In the cage next to me knelt a hobgoblin scrapper who had a meaty hand on my shoulder. He looked a bit rough around the gills, but no worse than I felt.

“Where are we?”

“Boglin village,” said the scrapper. He scowled. “Nasty snot-nosed boglins. Ain’t even got fur wot like a propp’r goblin. Spotted ‘em the other night. When the wranglers hopped on the cliffies to chase ‘em down, they made scarce and some nasty cloud took over the puppers. The boggies caught me from behind with those zap-sticks and brought me back here.”

I pulled myself to a sitting position, groaning. The sun was still up but dropping low to the horizon. I wasn’t sure how far I’d been moved, but it must have been a decent distance because there was a village here, and not a small one, either. I counted at least 20 goblins attending tasks—with diligence I recognized.

A group of six were working together to erect more wooden structures, while another set shaved down poles. Yet a third group had strung up a neatly-quartered turtle to bleed out into dried mud bowls. The turtle I’d seen had been level 9. That was no easy foe for rudderless goblins.

Something had moved their hands in the same direction.

“The boglins have a king, don’t they?” I asked.

“Seen ‘im. Big bloke, fish crown.”

“Fish crown?”

The scrapper nodded confidently. “Fish crown.”

I sighed. “Looks like I need to have a talk with fish-crown, king-to-king.”

Several of the boglins, drawn by the noise, drew close and gave us curious looks. They didn’t move like the goblins of Tribe Apollo. They were slow, smooth, and almost sinuous, whereas forest goblins were manic, jerky, and chompy. The boglins moved like, well, the bog; in such a way that you might lose them against the background if you weren’t paying attention. Their skin being the color of mud with pin-lines of light green that looked like peat moss only lent to that effect. But they could move fast if they wanted to. The one who had thrown the spear at me did so in the blink of an oversized eye.

One of the onlookers knocked the back of his spear against my cage. I backed away, and they undid the simple latch from outside that I probably could have jimmied from the inside with a few minutes effort. The only problem was, I had nowhere to go. Even if I could get out of the cage (easy), past the native boglins (slightly harder), and off this island (hard), I’d still be in the middle of the swamp filled with predators and a hostile goblin tribe (impossible).

So, instead of busting out, I waited for them to open the paltry jail and got to my feet. At least they’d left my prosthetics attached. They pointed at them for a moment, and I looked over at the scrapper.

“They was trying to decide wot yer legs were.”

I saw a handful of small rocks change hands, and then I realized they were scales of some creature. This tribe had developed currency—and gambling. Good god, the idea of goblins at a Texas Hold’Em tournament… well, some things are too horrific to consider. That was one technology I didn’t want Tribe Apollo adopting.

Slender fingers wrapped around my arms as the two boglins grabbed me by the shoulders and pushed me out onto the loose mud of the village.

“Boss!” the scrapper shouted after me.

I managed to keep on my blades as they scrambled me up the hill. This was what passed for high ground in the bog, I suppose. I’m surprised goblins were able to survive without a bluff, here. But they’d clearly managed to avoid being wiped out by croc-knockers long enough to grow into a tribe 40, maybe 50 strong.

A wooden fort dominated the top of the hill, held in place by mud slathered against the base of the walls. Two boglins guarding the front of the fort moved a section of the wall out of the way so my escorts could shuffle me through the opening and into the apex of the bog tribe’s village.

I’ll be honest. I smelled the king before I saw him. The unmistakable musk of old microwaved fish preceded the king. He came out carried on chair supported by 4 goblins, legless and fat, with a mane of blue hair whereas the other boglins were completely bald. The mane was slicked down by some sort of oil, or grease. On top of that, what I can only describe as a fish crown, because no amount of words could ever do this rancid thing justice. As if I needed more proof, his ambulatorily-challenged stumps waggled in the air as the 4 goblins struggled under the weight.

“It’s true, then!” he said, pointing a stick towards my crown of bones. His chair bearers managed to get him mostly facing me, but one or the other would lose balance and he would have to twist his neck to keep me in sight as the raised chair tilted or rotated. “An invading king from the forest!”

I shrugged out of the grip of the two boglins and stepped forward. The king cringed back, but I was clearly unarmed. Curious that he would be so skittish with 50 tribesmen ready to die for him. “I’m not invading!” I protested.

“Ho-hum! You built your tower on my shore, floated your ball of stitched skins as a threat, and attacked the knockers to show you had no fear. Strange way of not invading!”

“I’m not lying,” I said. But I had to admit, from King Ringo’s perspective, my actions could be read as very, very hostile. In a way, I was his javelines. I was the unknown force on his doorstep threatening his sovereignty and the safety of his tribe. He had no way of knowing that I had no ill intentions against him.

“I don’t want to live in the bog, I just wanted to collect some iron!”

The king looked down, and I noticed a scruffy-looking goblin somewhat smaller than the others.

“Erm, King Ringo, I believe he means the clangy stones the croc knockers use to incapacitate their prey. But this is impossible. No one would be foolish enough to pry open the maw of a ‘knocker to steal their knob.”

A talking variant, some kind of advisor goblin. Just what I needed, some crooked vizier figure. I reached down, fumbling for my snack pack, which had been taken, along with my knife, the poppers, and my tools. “Where are my things? I can prove it.”

King Ringo waved his hand. One of his goblins slinked away, and returned a few minutes later with my belt, my knife, and most surprising of all, the glider I’d dropped from the balloon. I was worried he would handle the poppers too roughly, but he showed adequate care with all my things. Rather than bring them to me, he took them to the boglin king, who began to root through with much less finesse. He fished around in the snack pack and pulled out the severed tongue I’d kept, throwing it on the ground as if it were a snake.

His advisor variant knelt down to examine it. “It is indeed as he claims. A tongue this size must have belonged to a full-grown ‘knocker. Curious, great king.”

“It’s not curious!” barked the king. It’s down-right suspicious! As is the rest of this!”

He pulled out my ceramic hook knife and waved it in the air. “Swamp Spirit, what manner of mud is this? And don’t tell me unknown, again!”

From his frustrated squawk, I imagine the System must have done just that.

“It’s not mud, o’ king,” I said, taking a page from Rufus’ book. Flattery couldn’t hurt. “It’s clay, such that we find in the forest and bake or fire. It becomes hard enough to hold an edge.”

King Ringo held it between his thumb and forefinger as his stumps wiggled. “You seek more of this in my land!”

“I’ve already told you, I just wanted iron ore.”

The king snuffled as he dug through more of my pack. He pulled out one of the poppers, raising it up and testing it with his teeth. I moved forward, intent on warning him, but he recoiled, shrieking, and I felt the jolt of a hard rod hit my lower back. Lightning shot across every muscle in my abdomen, sending me to the ground, coughing. One of the boglins had hit me with his spear. Surprisingly, I felt no blood when I probed the spot.

After I recovered, I straightened. “What are you frightened of, King Ringo?” I asked. “You’re a goblin king, are you not? You can’t die while you still have a tribe.”

“You’d like me to think that, wouldn’t you?” he sneered. He leveled the knife at my chest. “But a king can kill a king. I could gut you, here and now. I could take your goblins. Then, I could take your tribe, as you no-doubt planned to do with mine.”

System?

<He’s telling the truth.>

I swallowed. Even the javeline couldn’t kill me outright—though, they’d tried. This goblin held my life in its fat, webbed hands. “So what’s stopping you?”

Ringo leaned back, reveling in his power. “Why should I? What use have I for blue-furred squabblers who can’t even swim? Keep to your forests and trees. What care is it of mine? But my scouts told me you had a fire. Yet no lightning struck a tree last night. You must carry it with you.”  he shook the popper. “Is it within these? You have knives sharper than flint and towers and floating sacks of skin and winged, whistling things. I want it all!”

“You want the secret technology of Tribe Apollo?” I asked.

“Yes! Give it to me!” he shared a look with his advisor. “Then, I’ll consider letting you go.”

Clearly neither had any intention of doing that. But I didn’t think he’d kill me, either. I spread my hands. “Well why didn’t you say so? I’m happy to share.”

The boglin king’s advisor narrowed his eyes at me. “Sire, he must be lying.”

“I know that!” said Ringo, kicking his stubby leg remnants. “Take him back to his hut.”

The two boglins grabbed me again, and I struggled. “But I just said I’d give you what you asked for!”

“That’s why it’s so suspicious!” snarled Ringo. He tested the edge of my knife against his thumb. “No one gives a goblin anything. If I’ve learned anything here, it’s that.” He sunk his head into his shoulders. “Everything in the world looks down on goblins. If they don’t eat us, they kill us for sport. Mark me, I’ll wring the secrets from you, yet. My tribe needs that knowledge.”

Chapter 52 - Mind-Boglin Inventions

<Your tribe has decreased to 139 members>

They put me back in the cage next to the scrapper, not even bothering to lock it this time. I took a second to unlatch his door, as well. My partner had spent the evening digging a hole in his cage, only to find that water quickly filled in anything he dug out.

“Not much of an escape tunnel,” he admitted, settling back against the bars of his cage. “Wot you reckon, boss?” he made a noise like a rocket taking off and clapped his hands. “Make like with the porkbellies? A little rocket-tree action for King Ringo?”

“No,” I said. “I’m going to escape. And then I’m going to help him.”

“Help him? You know wot he’s got you in, right now? A cage. We put night haunts in them. And you know what comes next.”

“It’s not even locked,” I said, swinging the door open and shut. “I don’t hate this tribe—or Ringo. I pity them. And it’s true they need us more than we need them, but we can’t start wars with everyone we meet. Not every problem can be solved by launching a rocket at it.” I sat back, muttering. “Besides, we have no sulfur. You know how the icky-putty works. No one is coming to get us, either. If either of us are getting out of here, it's going to be because of us.”

The scrapper sighed and went back to his hole. I wasn’t wrong, though. Ringo might be a half-mad swamp-brained buffoon, but we each stood more to gain as friends than enemies. I just had to somehow convince him of that. He wanted fire, ceramic, ballooning. I could give him that, and more. I could give him boats. I could give him armor. I could make him walk.

I approached a pair of nearby boglins.

“I want to make a gift for King Ringo,” I said. I gave them a list of supplies, and they looked at each other and departed. A few minutes later, the advisor goblin showed up at my cell. “What’s this about a grift for Ringo? Are you trying to scam the great king and steal his hard-earned resources?”

“A gift,” I said. “I want to make him something.”

“You want to take his something? Spoken like a true thief!”

I smacked a fist into my palm. “That’s a reach and you know it.”

“Fine,” he said, crossing his arms. “I heard you true. But I still don’t trust you. What are you planning?”

“First I want to give you a name. Ringo’s got one. An… interesting one, at that. You’re clearly important around here. Why don’t you have one?”

The advisor hesitated. “My king has not seen fit to give me one.”

“How about George?”

The advisor worked it around his mouth. “Gee-oor-jah”

“Close enough.”

Despite his best efforts to mask his emotions, I could see the excitement in the boglin’s tapping feet. “Very well. What do you want to give King Ringo?”

I lifted one of my legs. “I want to make him something like this.”

The advisor looked down at the mechanical joint that connected my lower leg remnant to the sloth-claw prosthetic. “Hmm…” he said. “I shall take the idea to my king.”

He left, and I turned to the scrapper. “See? They can be reasoned with.”

The scrapper shrugged and kept digging.

About an hour passed, well into dark, before the advisor, George returned.

“He’s not interested.”

“What?” I asked.

George shrugged. “What need has a king of false legs? Being carried is the mark of true royalty, yet you are carried by no one. This is why you are a false king.”

“Did you even really speak to him?”

“I may have got distracted by official duties.”

I buried my face in my hands and screamed into my palms. Fugg me for wanting to walk and run and jump instead of getting carted around on a litter and thrown down cliffs, right? So un-kingly. The scrapper whistled and made an explosion sound behind me. I was beginning to agree. But it looked like I was stuck. Whatever I said, the boglins assumed I was lying—even if I expressly agreed with them! What frustrating people.

But they were still goblins. And it seemed like goblins in this world, above all else, needed to stick together. Even with what limited resources I had, I could probably kill Ringo and take his people. All I had to do was trick him into biting down on one of those poppers and poof, 40-50 boglins added to the tribe. I didn’t want to hurt Ringo. I wanted more neighbors in Rava that I could trust—even if I could only trust them to think I was out to get them.

The advisor tossed a small sack down on the floor of the cave and stormed off, which looked to contain the cast-off bits of fish guts that even the other boglins didn’t want. My stomach growled, and fire or not, I fell upon the offal with relish, chomping down scale, bone, and meat. I stopped myself from finishing it all and passed half of it through the bars to the scrapper.

“Here. You’ll need your strength.”

“Aww, king,” he said, taking the sack. He shoveled the rest into his mouth and spat a bone in the direction of the fort. “He may have their loyalty, but you got our trust. You’re twice the king wot ‘e is.”

Closer to three times, numerically speaking. If only there was a way to get my tribe here, their true size alone might intimidate Ringo into submission. But they couldn’t penetrate the swamp. Yet, Ringo’s boys could. I looked at the boglin guards with their mottled skin and pronged spears. How had they managed to survive in the bog amongst the predators and the threats? What was their secret?” It certainly wasn’t the competency of their monarch.

I felt the lethargy start to take me. It was a problem I’d have to sleep on.

    *           *             *

<Your tribe has decreased to 134 members>

<Your tribe continues to be demoralized by their missing king. No variant goblins were born. An additive spawning penalty has been applied.>

<Your tribe has increased to 139 members.>

<Food production cannot keep up with demands. Your tribe has a shortfall of 4.2 chooms per day.>

<Sulfur production cannot keep up with demands. Your tribe has a shortfall of .8 chooms per day.>

Ugh. I woke up shivering, with just my hide oil-cloak to keep my warm. At some point I’d gotten cold enough that I’d left my cage and gone in with the scrapper for a cuddle puddle for warmth. No one even bothered to stop us. Presumably since we didn’t have enough goblins to spawn an insurgency.

Not only that, but our replacement numbers were falling below attrition. Ringo didn’t have to kill me. If he held me too much longer, the tribe would wither as it was—if it didn’t starve first.

It wasn’t hard to figure out why, either. Low sulfur was probably due to increased scout flights trying to locate me, which meant there wasn’t enough to transport lizard meat from Canaveral. The resource logistics of Tribe Apollo were a delicate balancing act, and without me there to maintain them, things could collapse very quickly. I realized that an advisor variant might actually be useful for such a thing.

Maybe there was something to the scrapper’s idea, as distasteful as I found it. If I could manage to kill Ringo, his boglins and variants would transfer to me. He was keeping me alive now because I was a novelty and had goblin tech that he wanted. But once he had that? Well, it wasn’t hard to figure out what would be next on the menu. Hell, they’d probably pick their teeth with my crown.

I smacked myself in the back of the head. What was I even thinking? Ringo may have been a goblin, but he was still a thinking, intelligent being. And I was talking about murdering him for his boglins? I wanted him as an ally. I had to win him over. Of course, that was easier said than done. I had to impress him, outsmart him, escape, and give him reason not to follow all in one.

Above all, I had to cement in his mind that I was a goblin king just as devious and worthy of suspicion as he made me out to be. Play-act to his suspicions so that my earnestness wasn’t taken as scheming. Instead, I had to work the problem backwards. I sat down outside my cage to think about it while I waited.

The boglins left me alone until mid-morning, during which I heard the distant whistle of several glider boosters—dispatches from the village with airborne scouts, I was certain. At roughly three hour intervals. The scrapper dozed in the cage next to mine, his ‘tunnel’ having completely collapsed. It probably wasn’t a metaphor for my planning.

Probably.

Chapter 53 - Negotiating Tactics

“You want to go into the bog?” asked Ringo. He raised one fuzzy eyebrow and leered down from his chair, center of gravity dangerously forward as the boglins struggled to keep it level. “I told you I want fire. I want towers. I want flight!”

“Yes, o’ king,” I said. The answer to those is in the bog. Fire lives in the water. I saw it as I flew over. I can give you fire, I can give you flight. But I won’t give them to you for free.”

The king shared a look with his advisor. “You wish to trade safe passage through the swamp for these secrets?”

I shook my head. “No, sire. I’ve decided to stay with the tribe voluntarily. I wish for us to grow closer. As… friends.”

The advisor boglin, George stood on his toes to whisper into Ringo’s ear, but there was still so much distance between them due to the lofted throne that he had to whisper extra loudly and I could hear him quite clearly.

“Sire, he’s clearly planning to get close only to assassinate you!”

“I know that, fool! We will keep close eye on him. Find out what he wants.”

The advisor cleared his throat. “We are pleased you have finally decided to embrace your true self. An exchange between kings ought be a give and snatch. So what is it that you want from my gracious king?”

I bowed. “I wish to know how it is our king has kept his people safe from the dangers of the bog. My tribe is weak, and we have fallen victim to the aggression of the croc-knockers. How is it that you’ve kept them at bay? I’m sure that information is much, much too valuable a secret to trade, but I must try.”

Ringo snorted a laugh. “Simple. So simple even a forest goblin could grasp it!” He held out his hand, and a pair of goblins came forward carrying a longer version of the bog spear. He grasped it, and then thrust the tip down towards me. I flinched back, which greatly amused him. He chortled and chuckled. But while he did, I examined the tip.

The wood at the end of the spear had been split, and pinched between the tines was one of the tesla wasps! The two electric prongs stuck out several centimeters from the end of the rod. They were shock spears.

I had assumed the spear that hit me must have had some sort of fast-acting venom powerful enough to knock out even a goblin, despite our resistance to toxins and poisons. But this was an ingenious application. When I’d first encountered the crocs in the bog during my initial recon with Chuck, the only thing that had managed to deter the croc had been the enraged wasps. Well, a dozen goblins with wasps on the ends of sticks was almost as good as an angry swarm.

“How did you capture the wasps?” I asked.

“You don’t capture them, fool,” said the advisor. “You raid the nest from under the water and steal their eggs. You hatch them in the spear.”

Genius. Maybe I hadn’t given the boglins enough credit.

“Now, being as we’re friends, now,” the king and advisor shared a look. “Tell me how fire lives in the swamp.”

I cleared my throat. “Very well. O’ king. As I was passing overhead, I dropped my own fire in the bog. But instead of the water dousing the flame, it caught and spread. I thought little of it at the time, until I saw that!” I pointed at the king’s head.

He probed his face with his fingers. “My face?”

“Your hair. You’ve matted it with a black, sticky fluid from the swamp, yes?”

King Ringo dropped his fingers. “Indeed, a dark spring spurts forth a wonderful liquid. I find it gives my fur a dignified sheen. You seek the sheen? It’s very kingly.”

“King Ringo, I believe that spring holds the secret to swamp fire. If I teach you to trap it, then we can bring fire back to the village.”

Ringo ran a hand through his hair. “Intriguing. What would you need to trap the fire?”

“Simply the help of my scrapper and a device I can fashion from simple hides and wooden poles.” I patted my little leather shorts. “I had one with me when I fell, which would speed the process. But I’m afraid I lost it. I suppose I’ll just have to enjoy your food and hospitality for a week while I fashion another from your generous supplies.”

The advisor whispered up to the king.

“Sire, he’s clearly trying to stall his side of the bargain while he mooches food and materials. We recovered the device he dropped!”

Ringo turned to me. “My advisor says we can provide your capturing device. We will proceed without delay. Unless you think there is some reason we should not make haste?”

“Well, we should consider all approaches to this. One should never be—”

“Without delay!” decreed Ringo. He gestured with his rod, and the boglin guards grabbed me.

It took the king a few minutes to gather his personal guard, which consisted of 20 or so boglins dedicated completely to his own safety. At least half the tribe, actually, from what I could tell. Ringo rolled deep. Honestly, I could learn a thing or to from ol’ Ringo. I’d been a bit cavalier in life—always looking for the next thrill until I could take the ultimate one: walking on the moon. My pop had always said his heart would give out watching me bungee jump or white-water raft. And then his heart had given out at a steak restaurant as he tried to eat a 30 oz t-bone in 20 minutes to get it half-off. He’d been looking to put one foot in the grave ever since my mom had passed in 4th grade. Maybe I get my risk-taking from him.

But now, with a tribe to take care of, I had to acknowledge that my risky behavior had put me in compromising positions multiple times. In the interest of delegation and efficient application of resources and lack of delegation I’d eschewed my own personal safety repeatedly. For their sake, I had to take into consideration that mitigations had to be put in place—even if those mitigations were other goblins giving their lives to protect the good of the tribe by not allowing enemies to kill me over and over.

The scrapper was let out of the cage and joined us, stretching his considerable muscles. “Thanks for springin’ me, boss,” he said. He leaned in. “I got a confession. The tunnel weren’t shite.”

“I’ve got a plan,” I whispered back. “But I don’t know if I can get us both out. Are you with me?”

“I’m wiv’ ye, boss!” said the scrapper, nodding.

King Ringo hissed. “Stop that whispering! Conspiracy!”

I bowed. “Good king, you’ve caught me. I had thought to avoid your noticing. But your eyes see all.”

“And don’t forget it!” Ringo settled back into his chair. “Now. We go to this spring of the sheen-fur water with all haste.”

I had thought the boglins slow and plodding, but once they hit the water it was like watching a school of tetras. These guys had a lot of maneuverability thanks to webbing between their fingers and toes, and all the energy in the water that their forest-born cousins did on land. The king’s chair cut little white-water wakes as he struggled to keep his seat, and my boglin supervisors pushed me so quickly that my prosthetics rode up on the water like waterskis.

Hmm… System?

<Fine.>

<Goblin Technology unlocked: floaty-boaty blades.>

Hell yeah.