[D&D 3.5e] The Goblin Misadventures [IC]

[Awake]

You've all lived here as long as you can remember, as a part of Grot's small band. Raiding travellers, picking apart the scraps of attacked caravans; seemed like nothing else mattered in all the world. Times have grown tough recently. With a dry season, less and less traders have passed through, forcing your tribe to resort to hunting. With that town called Ashwick nearby, it hasn't been easy. They're far more experienced at catching game, and possess far more men. A direct attack would be insane; if not suicide. But luckily for Ashwick, sane options aren't the first ones goblins often consider.

After a day of meager pickings, Grot and his hunting party returned near dusk. Passing the campfire with their heads held low; the two others who entered with Grot quickly scurried away as he snarled, "The game here is weak. Nothing but rabbits left. Gather everyone. I need to see who can fix this." Sticking his spear in the ground, he watches them run off before stepping into his tent. Grot's tent is as humble as the other two of his camp; the only difference being a white clawed talon dripping with blood that he had scrawled on the leather flap leading inside.

The bigger of the two who returned with Grot screeched as loud as it could while banging on the drum near the campfire. Clamoring in a hurry, five other goblins dashed from the two tents on the far side of the camp. With his followers arrayed before the fire, Grot -now armored in hide- angrily rips through the leather flap leading into his tent. Trembling with rage, he pulls his spear from the ground, and rumbles, "Who among us is brave or stupid enough to take from Ashwick?! I am sick of how they keep everything for themselves!"

[Toska Moriarty]

"BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD!"

The shout echoes through the meager clearing. As individual members of the crowd turn and part to find who let rip the quite unusual warcry, left standing alone, a hand clasped firmly over his mouth despite his other hand hefting high his crossbow, a rather small goblin remains still. Small even by goblin standards, not quite a 'runt' but pretty damned close, Nork Madmaw was not a proud warrior or hunter. In fact, the only time he had been sent out to do any hunting and scouting, he returned a broken down, stuttering mess without the rest of his team, but with most of their gear.

Eyes of the tribe locked on him, he thought quickly, trying to redeem himself; "Eerp, that is I think your right, leader Grot! Someone should try to take Ashwick, a real hero! I hope someone will do that..."

Then, muttering "Blood for the Blood God" Repeatedly to himself, he shrank back, trying to re-squirm into the group, almost silently chanting his little mantra to himself, occasionally twitching as his eyes jumped from crowdmembers to Grot, to Grot's spear, to the ground.