MBGSP 47 thru 50

Hey everyone! Here are the next 4 chapters for MBGSP, bringing us up to chapter 50.

Chapter 47 - Frogged Down

I nearly squawked myself, spinning and waving the knife in front of my face.

The wading bird jumped back, wings flapping for balance as it looked down at me curiously. It tilted its head one direction, then the other to gander at me with each eye, as though it wasn’t sure what it beheld. Maybe it wasn’t used to goblins in the swamp, but it certainly wasn’t afraid of us. The quills that had stood up when I surprised it flattened back down.  It leaned forward and pecked at the bone crown on my head.

“Shoo!” I hissed. My adversary was not deterred. It looked down at me from the lofty height of about 1.5 meters. Then stepped past me and stuck its beak close to my partner. Our guard raised his spear, but I held him back.

“No! We don’t want it making a ruckus. Maybe it’ll go away.”

My armored partner gave me a dubious look, but kept his spear at the ready. The bird stepped closer to our companion, and that’s when I heard it.

“Ribit”

The wader pushed its wings overhead, creating a shade over the three of us as it stared down at the goblin who had swallowed the frog whole. It prodded its beak down around the water line, looking for the source of the sound.

“It’s hunting!” I said. “It wants the frog!”

The goblin clapped his hands over his mouth, but not before another ribit worked its way up from his depths. The water bird snapped its head up, realizing the source of the sound, and thrusting its beak down toward the goblin with all the grace and subtlety of a drunken ex on New Years. The goblin fell back, arms windmilling as he splashed and squawked.

“Can it!” I hissed. “Get out of here, bird!” I ordered.

Instead of obeying me, the waterfowl shoved his beak right into the mouth of the struggling goblin, an act that was as stupid as it was brazen. But man, I guess it really wanted that frog. It was like watching the worst game of operation ever as the bird fished through my panicked partner’s innards. He must have nibbled the little guy’s uvula, because the frog, and everything else the goblin had eaten in the last 24 hours, came fountaining up right into the bird’s face.

The bird trilled in outrage and alarm—doubly so when the frog made it’s timely escape. But the low whistle humming across the bog brought my attention away from the bizarre tableau and over to the island where the two croc-knockers had been basking. An island that was now empty.

Uh oh.

“Out of the water!” I called. “Get the iron onto dry land!”

The rest of the goblins had stopped working to watch the show, some cheering for their comrade and some trilling like the water bird, presumably supporting its conquest. But they all heard my call and looked back at the now-empty island. All interest in the epic battle evaporated. Even the water bird took flight, its day having taken a decidedly bizarre turn. A pair of frog legs dangled from its beak.

The shore suddenly seemed so far away. I pushed through the water, no longer as concerned with stealth. A cry of alarm brought me back around. The goblin guard was furiously thrusting his spear down into the murky depths, when all of a sudden a fountain of bog water sprayed upward, carrying the guard with it. The long jaws of a crock-knocker followed, snapping shut on the goblin. His armor held out as the jaw muscles on the creature bulged and shook, but then the plates gave out with a crack, and the shouts cut off.

<Your tribe has decreased to 154 members.>

This wasn’t the croc from the island. This one was bigger, and still had the XX above it. Which meant the ones from the island were still out here.

Somewhere else along the line, another croc-knocker struck—on an unarmored goblin this time, which meant any iron that he’d collected would have just gone down the croc’s gullet in a tragic loss.

“Poppers and spears!” I shouted, holding my own wicker basket out of the water. “Poppers and spears!”

The pop pop of the clay grenades began to erupt against the hard shell of the crocs, and they roared in anger. There were no tesla wasps to intervene this time. Just a dozen goblins with ceramic tipped spears and minor explosives.

<Your tribe has decreased to 152 members.>

Two

A pair of goblins on the shore angled one of the RPP’s towards us, and I dove face-first under the water as they struck the primer. I could see the flare of the rocket motor pass over me before the explosion created a wave of water that knocked me almost to shore. I held the basket  tight to my chest as I broke the surface for air.

The croc reeled from the rocket propelled popper, but recovered quick and opened its mouth. I could see the muscles bunch up before the hard knob at the end of its tongue shot out within a few centimeters of my head and conked one of the rocket goblins on the skulll. I saw ceramic chips fly as the goblin was knocked off its feet. But I didn’t get a notification for its demise. Thank you ceramic! Thank you stone-sloth totem!

<Your tribe has decreased to 149 members.>

That didn’t mean things were going well, of course. The crocs weren’t just  hungry, they were angry. Especially the one that had nearly hit me. It fixed its eyes on me, and there was more than ordinary animal intelligence there. It opened its jaws again and reeled back its tongue for another shot. As the knob passed me, I saw a red shine and realized: its tongue was wrapped around a piece of iron the size of my fist.

Iron tools! The damn crocs were already technically in the iron age! And they were clobbering us with it.

Well, I’d come here to get iron. And damned if I was leaving without it. I still had the hooked ceramic knife in my hand. Dropping the wicker basket, I reached out and grabbed the iron nodule, bringing the knife underneath the thick, cord-like tongue and yanking it back.

Ceramic is sharp. Unbelievably sharp. The croc’s tongue resisted a little. But once the knife bit in, all that resistance evaporated and the tip of its tongue split away, along with the iron it clutched. The croc-knocker roared in pain, tongue whipping around with the released tension. It fixed its yellow eyes on me and barreled through the water. It ignored the closest goblin, the unfortunate frog-vomitter, and came straight on.

Maybe I didn’t think this plan through all the way.

I sloshed my way toward shore. Meanwhile, all the goblin builders on the shore had grabbed spears, and shouted a rallying war cry as they charged toward me with the intent to protect their king. I passed the line with my prize in tow.

<Your tribe has decreased to 145 members.>

More poppers went out, and another RPP fired from the shore at one of the other croc-knockers. But nothing seemed to deter the bog monsters. I even saw the wranglers launch the net at one of them, but it just dipped below the surface and gave it the slip before coming back up to crunch on another guard.

<Your tribe has decreased to 143 members.>

We were getting our collective butts handed to us. I reached the shore, dripping and gasping for air, with my prize clutched to my chest. Most of the other iron harvesters had made it to shore as well with their spoils. But at least half the fighters had been swept aside like detritus on the surface of the water. But it hadn’t been as big a slaughter as it might have with the ceramic armor or the stone-sloth totem blessing.

I stumbled my way onto the shore with the rest of the harvesters and what remained of the guards. We weren’t even a threat to the crocs. We were snacks. Between the crushing claws and chomping jaws, and that over-leveled alpha, we’d bounced off the bog again in glorious fashion. At least I’d gotten a little trophy. But I couldn’t imagine the iron ore we’d collected would amount to being worth the the price of 10+ goblins. But, where at first you don’t succeed, iterate and test again. We’d learn from this and—

A growing cascade of squawks brought my attention to the two croc-knockers that levered themselves up on the bank and began stomping around the shore, chasing goblins back into the forest bordering the swamp carrying their baskets of meager takings. They caught sight of me, and their eyes slid up to my bone crown, then narrowed. Oh hell. They could recognize me. Both bellowed deep, guttural growls and started dragging themselves toward me.

Best not to stick around. We beat a hasty retreat, not stopping until the tower was back in sight, along with the builders. The crocs had stopped chasing us a while back, and the scrappers had caught up in their bog disguises. But I wasn’t going to risk getting caught out by the shadow wolf that had possessed the cliffords, either.

Chapter 48 - Croc Blocked

The problem with the crocs was that ceramic-tipped spears and poppers might as well have been sticks and harsh language as far as the high-level beasts were concerned. Their hide wasn’t just tough, it was thick and scaly. our weapons weren’t penetrating deep enough to draw blood, let alone deter the monsters. I unpeeled the tongue from around the iron prill and folded it up, stashing it in my snack pack on my skinny hide belt in case I got hungry later.

System, how much iron did we collect?

<4.1 chooms.>

Please tell me that’s in volume.

<Weight.>

Damn. Without the ability to deter, defeat, or distract the crocs, that was likely to be the result every time. So far, the only thing I’d seen be mildly effective against them was the tesla wasps, which were equally happy to zap us goblins. Weaponizing the bugs wasn’t just a matter of finding and trapping them—if such a thing could even be done.

“Boss!” Hadfield yelled down from the tower. “You should come see this!”

I glanced at the other goblins and hurried over to the tower where a rope pulley dropped down and two goblins counter-weighted me up at lightning speed. As soon as I’d landed on the top platform, Hadfield pointed off to the east. A column of white smoke rose from Village Apollo, clearly visible from the bog.

“Oh no. What have the igni done to the village?” I asked.

Hadfield shrugged. “We’re getting ready to loft the balloon. What signal do you want to send?”

I considered. The iron gathering had been a disaster. But it was always going to be messy, and I had a few more days before the new guests would arrive. “We’re continuing. Resupply and additional personnel.”

“You got it!” said Hadfield, grinning. All of the goblins who had been with me in the bog slumped over, moaning. I needed to figure this problem out. They would follow my orders to their own detriment. At least, until their fear response overwhelmed all sense of reason in their little goblin brains, and then they’d break and run. But they would be most effective if they believed in my orders. Believed that, somehow, what they were doing was to their benefit. Ordering wave after wave of goblins to their deaths might eventually accomplish my goal, but it would be inefficient and wasteful as the entire workforce were paralyzed by fear.

I waited as the goblins set the balloon up and lit the fuel canister. Hell, say nothing of the goblins, I was feeling demoralized. I couldn’t even go for a run to blow off steam because there were monsters in the forest. But, I could at least go for a short glide. As the balloon began to ascend, I borrowed one of the personal gliders and hopped on the plaform. The lizard-skin balloon strained against the extra weight, but thanks to the burning goblin excrement, it slowly started warming enough to pull me off the ground. I rose up past the cheering goblins who stopped working on the tower to watch the balloon loft. They’d take a midday break in order to shimmy up the tether and dive off. Some of them would even have gliders. What pleasure the rest got out of bouncing off their heads, I can’t say.

As the platform lifted above the trees, I got yet another kick in the teeth. The croc-knockers were now dozing in the reed area we’d cleared, next to our bricks that we’d set to dry. Well, they weren’t bricks anymore. The croc’s had smashed everything vaguely goblin-like in the clearing. They knew which direction we’d come from. Just one more problem.

The balloon reached full height none too soon. I spotted the glider inbound from the east and hoisted the signal flag. The light aircraft did a tight circle, hooking around the balloon and drawing close enough for me to see one of the wranglers laying prone in the harness. He recognized me and gave a quick tilt of his wings. I waved back, then grabbed onto the platform as a strong gust hit the balloon.

“Woah!” I said. The glider pilot seemed to be having issues of his own, as his aircraft nearly inverted. He wrestled it back on course and turned back east. Maybe a half-kilometer toward the village, his wings bucked and nearly folded in on themselves. A wall of wind hit his glider like a hammer, and it was all he could do to keep from being hammered down into the treetops below.

“Reel me in!” I shouted down.

The goblins below had no chance of hearing me. In fact, they’d formed a circle and started doing the wave in anticipation of me jumping. I held on tight to the balloon platform, wondering why, in my infinite wisdom, I hadn’t thought to include anything like, say, a seatbelt.

When the wind hit the lizard skin envelope, it nearly jerked the platform right out from under me. I felt the whole ensemble buck and pull against the tether. The glider went flying, despite my attempts to grab at it. Below me, the goblins panicked as the sudden windstorm kicked through the trees. Some of them had the presence of mind to grab the rope and start pulling down the balloon. But too many of them yanking on it at once while the wind pulled the other direction would stress the line. It wouldn’t be long before—

Snap.

My stomach lurched as the balloon separated from the tether and spun in the wind. I  prepared to jump, ready to abandon ship—until I saw what was under me. The wind had blown the balloon to the northwest at the end of its tether, to the point where I hovered over the site of our unfortunate battle that afternoon. If I bailed out now, I would land right next to the two crock-knockers. The bastards were tripping me up again, and it wasn’t even on purpose this time! I had no choice. I held on as the loose balloon continued westward. Unhelpfully, the System provided my airspeed/altitude window.

This was a disaster. I couldn’t bail out. But I couldn’t keep floating forever, either. The fact I was still gaining altitude was problematic, as well. I reached up and bashed the fuel canister out of place. The fiery jar of goblin scat went tumbling down into the bog below. Curiously, when it hit the surface of the water, instead of snuffing itself out, the flame spread rapidly across the surface, and flared for a moment near an island. That startled a flock of birds who quickly flew up and nearly knocked me out of the balloon. I swatted at the little devils, but they had sharp beaks and boy did they let me know it. One of them succeeded in tearing a small hole in the gas envelope.

“Ah, hell,” I swore. Looked like climbing in altitude wouldn’t be a problem anymore. The balloon leveled out as the hot air began to escape. I was still high enough to get a lay of the land from a bird’s eye view, so I focused on committing the terrain to memory. Navigation on Rava wasn’t difficult. Between the moon and the mountains to the northeast, I always had a positive visual marker. Plus the several bluffs that dotted the forest north of the plains were distinct enough.

The bog extended west and north, though it was roughly the shape of a crescent moon hooked around a peninsula on our side of the wetland. The balloon was carrying me more west than north, and I wasn’t sure what was on the other side of the bog. I hadn’t taken a long-range glider out that far because the lack of thermals made the return journey uncertain. Go figure.

Over the next hour, I watched for a better spot to drop as the balloon slowly descended on its own. Somewhere with land, and not just a small crop of rocks that a croc-knocker could easily get onto. I didn’t want to drop in the bog, but dropping on the other side of it would mean a long trek either through or around it anyway, and that might be even more dangerous than the croc-knockers. I had to at least get out of the croc infested eastern shore. Every minute carried me further from the tribe, but also further from the clutch of croc-knockers that we’d pissed off.

I spotted an island with a bit of a hill to the west that my flight path was taking me mostly near. It wasn’t quite steep enough to qualify as a proper bluff, but it might do in a pinch. I’d pass within a few dozen chooms of it. It looked like it would be my best bet to get out of the water quickly, and then I could work on getting back to the expedition. Best of all, I couldn’t see any crocs sunning on the waterside. As the balloon floated over it, steadily loosing altitude, I wriggled out of the lines of the platform, reached up with my bogging knife and sliced open the balloon. The whole thing deflated, and both I and the balloon began to free fall.

The human part of my stomach still jumped up into my throat at the idea of such a suicidal fall. But, of course, it wasn’t any threat to me as a goblin. I just had to make sure I landed head-first.

Hitting the water felt like being slapped with a rock, but my head pushed through, and then buried itself halfway in the mud at the bottom. I beat at the base of the bog bed, trying to dislodge myself as my prosthetics waved in the air above the surface. Luckily, I’d loosened up the mud on impact, so I came out relatively easily and thrust my head above water for a breath. The balloon and platform had fallen somewhat close by.

First order of business: get the remains of the ensemble to land.

A splash in the water somewhere behind me draw my attention. I turned around to see a ripple in the water headed my way.

Oh, no. First order of business: don’t become lunch. I splashed through the water, trying to stay ahead of whatever was coming. I was still a dozen feet away when a wide, spade-shaped turtle head broached the water, along with a massive shell. Only this one was wide, flat, and horned with a crest of red, fibrous kelp growing on the back of its neck. Huh. I half expected it to start spitting fire and trying to kidnap princesses from Italian plumbers. It hissed at me.

I relaxed a bit as the system put its level above it’s head. 9. We’d taken care of much worse. Only—I’d had my tribe at a time. No, no. My first instinct was right: Alarm was perfectly warranted. I resumed my panicked retreat as the turtle’s head dipped out of view.

The ripples approached, way too fast for something that was supposed to be as slow as a turtle. I was never going to make it.

Chapter 49 - Marooned

The jaws of the turtle opened and lunged toward me, snapping and gnashing. They locked around my chest and squeezed so hard I thought I might come apart. It wasn’t as bad as getting stabbed by the javeline spear, but it was damn close.

<Your tribe has decreased to 142 members.>

Of course, I couldn’t die unless I was the last member of the tribe. Instead, a random goblin would take the hit for me. I beat at the turtle’s head as it tried to take another chunk out of me. This time, it forced me under the water and against the muddy bottom. I kicked and punched, unable to breath. Its sharp jaws dug into my center, trying to get purchase.

<Your tribe has decreased to 141 members.>

God, the thing was strong. It felt like pushing against a brick wall. Leading from the rear, I sometimes forgot just how weak goblins were as individuals. The turtle dragged me across the bottom. My lungs burned. Would drowning just start ticking down goblins?

I didn’t have to find out as the turtle whipped its head around and tossed me over its shell. I cartwheeled through the air, splashing back down into the bog water. Ol’ boy was probably frustrated with the fact that I wasn’t dead already, but it planned to rectify that situation presently. I got my bearings as quick as I could and reached down to my hide belt. The turtle came back around, swimming just under the surface. This time, when its head broke the surface and made to chomp me again, I stuffed a popper in its mouth instead.

Startled by the audacity, the turtle reeled back and chomped down. I barely managed to get my fingers out of the way before its jaws snapped shut, as if the popper were a gumball. A bright flash shone through its nose and eyes, along with a gout of flame from his nostrils that singed my fur. The thing froze, blinked, and looked at me, bewildered.

“There’s more where that came from,” I warned as I backpedaled toward the island. “Just try it again. Actually, please don’t try it again.”

Smoke billowed out the thing’s nostrils. Honestly it was a shock the popper hadn’t blown its head completely off, but I guess the turtle was made of out sterner stuff than the low-level clifford that had chomped a bomb fruit my first day on Rava. Still, it glared at me with a wary eye, probably debating if I was a morsel worth the trouble. After a tense moment in which I held another popper out and ready, its internal calculus must have fallen to the side that there were less spicy meals around. It sunk below the surface with a final glare. The ripples headed away, and I let out a breath and replaced the popper in my padded case. I only had two of them left. I’d have to make them count.

With the turtle gone, I was able to wrestle the wreckage of the waterlogged balloon up onto the shore of what I thought was a small island but turned out to be an outcropping of a larger piece of land that led west, deeper into the bog. I dragged the wreck up higher, hoping that the croc-knockers wouldn’t go up further from the shore than I’d seem them previously. But they were clearly not our biggest fans, so they might make an exception for me.

In the grand scheme of things, I hadn’t drifted far from the tribe. 2, maybe 3 kilometers. I could even still see hints of the smoke from the main camp through the canopy. But 3 kilometers on foot to a lone goblin might as well have been another continent. Every time I’ve been isolated since setting foot on Rava, I’ve immediately been under threat. And the bog wouldn’t exactly be kind to a rescue party, either. If a rescue came for me. They would have to A) know where to find me, and B) survive the swamp themselves. We’d lost almost 10% of the tribe just trying to steal a little iron to smelt, so that didn’t seem likely. No. If anyone was going to get me out of this situation, it was me.

While I pulled off my wet cloak and hung it on a low branch to dry, I took stock of all the tools and materials I had handy. It wasn’t much, admittedly. I’d taken to carrying a hide cord belt with a few small bags on it and a hard case for a few emergency poppers. Of those, I had two left. I also had some cordage, my hooked bogging knife, and a set of ceramic precision tools. I had some died fish and meat, as well. But, I wasn’t being digested in a monster’s stomach while my tribe slowly ticked down, so that was a plus.

From the balloon, I salvaged the lizard skin envelope, the rigging, the heating cradle, and most of the platform. The hole I’d torn in the skin looked potentially reparable. I just needed cordage small enough to thread through, and fuel (or rather, more food than I had, in order to manufacture it inside my own body). And a favorable wind. I ran a hand through my fur. And to not be a borderline helpless, 1-meter goblin.

Enough of that. That was defeatist thinking. This was a setback, but I was not going to let it define me. I would not spiral, and I would not wallow in my misfortune. That wasn’t me. I push forward. Always. And I never let anyone or anything define my limitations. I thought back to the footprints on the edge of the campsite. Something had figured out how to survive in this place, despite the carnivores, the insects, and whatever other threats lurked. Of course, they were another lurking threat. But if I was going to make a list of all the things in Rava that could kill me, I’d die of old age before I finished.

It was time to go to work.

After a quick snack.

And maybe a nap.

Chapter 50 – Boglins

<Your tribe has decreased to 138 members.>

<1 hobgoblin scrappers have been added to your tribe.>

<2 hobgoblin wranglers have been added to your tribe.>

<1 noblin ignis has been added to your tribe>

<Your tribe has increased to 151 members.>

I woke up, shivering in the oilskin cloak. Goblins typically nested for warmth and reproduction. But I’d spent the night alone on an elevated platform that I’d pulled up into the crook of a low tree in order to put any amount of distance between myself and ground-based predators. I didn’t seem to be suffering the malaise typical of a restless goblin night, so that was a plus—if a small one.

Plan A was repairing the balloon and floating out of here on a change of the wind. But that necessitated more food than I had in order to produce the methane-rich goblin scat. Fish were my best bet for that. I spent the morning making a pair of flexi-pole fish traps—a combination fishing pole/flex-a-pult that would swing a hooked fish back onto the shore. I’d seen fish in the bog, up to and including ones that were big enough to eat me. I used what was left of my meat to bait the small hooks and the cordage from my pouch to make the lines, and then cast them out into the bog.

With the traps active, I set out to explore my immediate surroundings on the bog island. I crested the top of the hill and looked out west, where a thick layer of brush spread out. There weren’t any crocs that I could see on the shores leading down to the water. Maybe they were too steep, or maybe the beasts were still asleep instead of sunning themselves on the silt banks. Good riddance. I hoped I didn’t see any all day. I did, however, spot—or rather hear a nest of the tesla wasps nearby, by their tell-tale electric snaps and pops. And I did not want to run afoul of them, either.

Though, maybe the presence of the nest was what deterred the crocs. As long as I didn’t attract their ire, the presence of the nest might work out to be a net benefit. I kept moving, keeping the sounds of the nest on my left as I pushed north through the tight brush. The under-layer was a forest of stems and branches that I could navigate crouched down. I felt a bit like a rabbit ducking through a hedge. Occasionally, I had to use my bogging knife to clear a branch or two, but otherwise, it was almost like a secret highway under the foliage.

I made it a couple hundred meters or so by mid-morning, at which point I reached the western shore of my little island. I also heard the distant twang of the flexi-pole going off, so I decided to head back. Sure enough, there was a fish that had splatted against the rocks with a very shocked expression, hook still in its mouth. I collected the meat, reset the trap, and headed back to my meager camp to start a fire.

With the dampness of the bog and with no other goblins for a carousel, it would be tough to get a fire going. At least through traditional means. When I’d met Rufus, he’d struck a fire by combining a pair of liquids from a pair of small vials. I didn’t have those two chemicals, but what I did have was a trio of small clay balls filled with a compound sensitive to pressure and impact.

I collected some kindling and sticks, as well as some creeping ivy from the trees, and sat down with one of the poppers and my ceramic precision tools. One was a tiny hand drill, and that’s the one I went to work with. In our world you might call it a pin drill, with a bit about .8 millimeters across, if I judged it right.

It took a few minutes, working slowly to avoid catastrophic failure, for the ceramic bit to auger through the hardened clay and penetrate the softer material within. I carefully drilled a second hole, and then tipped the openings toward my small pile of fuel. The bomb-fruit juice didn’t blend perfectly with the oily goblin scat and sulfur mix of the poppers. It took a few moments, but a bead started to form at the lower opening, growing to about the size of a pea before breaking off and dropping over the tinder I’d scraped together.

I quickly slathered a bit of mud over the openings to seal them, and then struck the wet spot in the tinder with the hilt of my bogging knife. There was a crack and a smell like the Fourth of July, and then a tiny flame nestled in the fluff.

<Goblin Technology Unlocked: Incendimal fire-starties.>

<The Igni are going to love that.>

Oh boy.

I got down on my hands and knees and blew into the budding flame until I had a decent fire going, then set the remains of the fish to roast on a piece of bark. I sat back as it cooked with some vines from the forest and my knife to make a fine enough cord to stitch up the lizard-frill balloon. The crackle and pop of the fire kept me company as I worked, blending with the sound of the bog—which was mainly the sound of insects interspersed with the occasional croc-knocker bellow. So far, none of them had accosted me on this island.

I’d gotten so used to the noise of the village. The goblins were many things, but quiet wasn’t one of them. Running around at top  speed, chittering, biting, and just generally being a menace made the bluff sound a bit like a daycare from hell for most of the day. But it had become my daycare from hell. I didn’t like being alone.

I heard the Twang-splat of the flexi-pole again, only without the splat part, this time. I sighed, getting to my feet. Fish had gotten lucky, this time. I grabbed a few morsels and some fishbones to make a better hook. One small fish wasn’t going to get me very far.

I trekked down the hill of the island to the coast, but when I saw what had happened, I stopped, and dropped down to the ground.

Five small hominids stood by the water, examining the sprung fishing trap while a sixth sprawled on the silt, with a red welt running vertically up its ugly, fleshy face. I watched from my concealed position as one of them smacked the other fishing trap with the butt of its pronged spear, causing the contraption to go off. It somehow also managed to smack the one already prone on the ground. Judging from their spears and their fleshy, webbed feet, these had to have been the same creatures that broke into the wagons and stole supplies.

They looked like, well, they looked like goblins, albeit furless, fleshy, and fishy. It had to be a subspecies or variant. And if they were a goblin, then my ability to command them might work on them.

System, will these things defer to a goblin king?

<Yes. Boglins are a variant goblin capable of leadership under a goblin king.>

Perfect! Swamp-dwelling goblins! The System provides.

I stood from my hiding spot, striding confidently down the hill. I raised my hand in greeting and offered a big, toothy grin.

“Ahoy! I’m King Apollo!”

The boglins stared at me. Still not close enough, apparently. I kept approaching, waiting for the prompt to catch up and the System to tell me that the tribe had grown another three members.

System, what gives? I thought these guys will answer to a goblin king.

<They do.>

I stopped, confused. I figured it out about the time one of the spears hit me in the gut. A lance of pain washed over my body. The world shook, and every muscle in my body lit up like it had been struck by lightning. As I toppled, I looked down, at the spear embedded in my belly.

Huh. I thought, before I lost consciousness.