A/N: I love this quest, and I love the dwarfs. But I also love the greenskins and a certain goblin lord that got shafted in the End Times, and this wouldn't get out of my head, so apologies for the length of this or if I'm doing this horribly wrong.
And you can somehow feel the intended conduit of that deity on the edge of your perception, you see within Karag Rhyn a half-grown goblin standing motionless in horror as his place in history is usurped, even as one of his boyz takes the opportunity to usurp his Boss and slips a dagger between his ribs. That conduit has been abandoned...
Tell 'em all about me, Skarsnik, tell 'em all about my life, leave nuffink out.
I shoulda seen it coming.
All day long, the entire tribe had been on edge. Runtgit felt it in his bones, same as every other goblin, same as every greenie who knows there's a right propa scrap close by or when two big 'uns are gonna hash out which one's the boss. Sure, even their little insignificant tribe had heard about the stunties going on the warpath, bringing all manner of unimaginable insanity to the neighboring mountains that grew more and more outlandish with each telling: monstrous beasts and angry 'umies, fiery explosions and arrows a-plenty, burning shadows and dead killy ghosts in gray, and hordes and hordes of armored and bearded juggernauts.
But this weird feeling was all around them, way bigger than an army of stunties. Bigger than their little backstairs tribe and bigger than their Crooked Moon bosses, so huge that it felt like two of the biggest big 'uns ever to do big fings were about to throw down.
And that had everyone real antsy. Runtboy Snotruk kept digging for any excuse to flay the skin from Runtgit's bones. Big Boss Tarkit Fing-Finger kept talkin' to the fing on his finger, disquieted at whatever it was he heard. Even Duffskul was too distracted to keep up his crazy act, or to sneak any covert shows of support for the runty git destined for great things. Except the old shaman hadn't so much as glanced in Runtgit's direction, scanning their little cave with a worried frown- almost like he was looking for something.
Looking for Runtgit, maybe. Except Runtgit coulda sworn the shaman's gaze slid over him multiple times, seeing straight past him like he wasn't there.
Things only got worse when Runtgit took his band of gobbos out into the caves and into those hidden, secret passages that only he and his boyz knew about. Mushrooms for himself, weird green rocks for the ratties that'll get 'em more mushrooms (not that his boyz or anyone else knew about that little under-the-table trading), all making Runtgit and his tribe richer by the day. But mostly Runtgit. And why not? He had bigger and grander destinies in his future, fueled by the feverish dreams of his too-smart goblin brain and that constant little voice in his head tellin' him he was gonna be da biggest and bestest gobbo since Grom da Paunch flattened da pansies...
And Runtgit freezes in place as, inexplicably, they all vanish just like
that, slipping through his fingers like so much smoke. Not his dreams or his thoughts, but just... everythin' he coulda been. A burning spark in his soul snuffed out before he even realized it was there, and Gork's tinny voice replaced by a horrifying silence.
If he had just one more moment, he could've composed himself. Runtgit's still a too-smart goblin, even if that's all he'll ever be now, and he's not so shaken that he can't keep his boyz in line.
Instead, Runtgit feels a shiv slipping between his ribs before he can even finish turning.
I shoulda seen it coming, comes the distant thought as he staggers back with a scream, clutching at the knife still in his guts. He'd thought the boyz were only on edge, so he'd taken them around a different route to give 'im time to sort things out. All it usually takes is to shove a few would-be mutineers down the wild squig-paths and let the screams and munching help him keep order, right? And that'd work if they were only scheming as much as they usually did, kept in line as they were by his cunnin' smarts and sneaky foresight.
But all he sees in the gobbos surrounding him is open greed and- disbelief?
"See? Easy," the git sneers- his newest gobbo, bigger than the rest. "An' here you all are, takin' orders from a runty git."
With stark, nightmarish clarity, Runtgit is suddenly aware that he's a too-smart
and too-small gobbo, runtier than gobbos half his age. And who's gonna listen to someone like that?
Not these guys, apparently. Another goblin chortles, already toadying up to the backstabber. "Oo, 'ee's a dead runty git soon."
His neighbor frowns, green brow wrinkling in thought. "But Runtboss Grobskab-"
"Is only gonna hear dat Runtgit got in an
accident," the backstabbing git snarls. "Fell down a pit an' broke his neck or summat, see? And all da goods is goin' to us." Before his boyz finish wrapping their minds around that thought, Runtgit feels he oughta step in. (For all the good that'll do, with inches of cold rusty metal lodged in his guts, but. One step atta time.)
"C'mon, dere's no need for all dis, right?" he wheezes. Talking's harder than it should be, around all this throbbing pain that feels like it takes up his entire torso; Runtgit braces himself against the wall, drawing in a shuddering breath. "Let's just... talk fings out, an' I can make you a rich gobbo-"
The zoggin' git has the gall to laugh in his face. "Hah! Nah, I's gonna be a rich gobbo wivvout your help. No more sneakin' and skivvin' about!" He grins, throwing his arms out wide. "I's tellin' Boss Tarkit all about Runtgit's secret shroom rooms, an' then we're
all gettin' propa rewards! Bigger rewards!"
Runtgit groans as much from exasperation as from physical pain, and then lets out a much louder groan when the gobbos around him nod and grin.
Idiots! Those caves, all those caves, will grow mushrooms for years an' years! Keep sneakin' them for yourselves, and dat's enough payments to make any gobbo filthy rich forever! But hand over the source and all you'll get is one tiny reward if you're lucky, and then the rest'll just be Tarkit's forever. And what're you gonna do wiv da green rocks if you ain't tradin' with the ratties-
At least all this gabbing about undoing his life's work is giving Runtgit enough time to fumble for his own knife with cold fingers. All it takes is just the right moment when that backstabbin' git ain't lookin'-
He kicks off the wall and lashes out, but even his legs aren't obeying him anymore, and what should have been a right cunnin' backstab turns into a wild slash that ends in a tumble and sheer red-hot agony lancing through his body. The git's howl of pain and splash of blood are cold comfort to Runtgit as he narrowly avoids landing on the shiv lodged inside him, but he'll take what he can get.
"You zoggin' runt!" The backstabber-
right, Krogga, dat's his name- clutches at the bloody slash across his side, his beady eyes wild and angry. "I'll make you bleed right slow for dat! Get 'im!" he howls, and Runtgit wearily lifts his knife as the other goblins scramble over themselves to make it so-
A whirlwind of red skin and wickedly sharp fangs blur across his vision, and Krogga goes from a normal gobbo to half a torso and a spare leg before he even has the chance to scream. If Runtgit had the strength to laugh, he'd be cackling at the irony- he didn't need to shove a few would-be mutineers down the wild squig-paths, he just had to let the wild squig come to him, drawn by the scent of blood and no small amount of luck.
But he can't even muster up the strength to gloat, not when his life can probably be measured in minutes no matter what happens next. While the screaming, the roaring, and the messy tearing of flesh are music to his ears, it's all Runtgit can do to prop himself up against the cave wall and watch the carnage, clutching at his wound. Odd, that; casualties aside, six gobbos should be enough to scare off a lone squig, or at least leave someone behind to flee. But this one's downright vicious, and Runtgit has to scoot aside as a screaming backstabber's guts spatter across the wall.
It's only when the last gobbo is summarily eaten that Runtgit gets a good look at his savior, and- Mork's teeth, it's a beast. Barely half-grown and already the size of a normal squig- and still growing, going by the size of its eyes and feet. Skin 'arder than armor, fangs like choppas-
And a nasty scar across one eye.
"Of all da fings." And Runtgit
does laugh, ignoring how it jars his wound. That little squigling he saved so long ago- now a far cry from the wriggling runt about to be knifed by a particularly stupid long-dead git- confirms it by vaulting over and nudging him with a huff instead of having him for lunch. He ain't never seen a squig so tame! With a squig like this, no one'll mess with Runtgit! He can see it now- he'll go back home, get this wound patched up, an' grab him another gang of gobbos from Big Boss Tarkit! Next time he trades wiv da ratties, with this squig at his back, ooh, he'll squeeze out some better terms. And why stop there? He'll go to the plains outside the mountains an' grab his destiny wiv or wivvout Gork whisperin' in his ear, gather enough strength to take over the Crooked Moon gobbos, and then-
Runtgit blinks blearily as the squig interrupts his train of thought, whining with something more than simple animal distress. Maybe he can feel it, too- that things ain't supposed to be like this, that something's gone terribly wrong- but Runtgit grins toothily, patting the leathery hide of his squig with an effort. "I's gonna be fine," he croaks hoarsely. "We got fings to do, me ole pal, an'..."
He's tired, so tired, even as his mind whirls with possibilities, and his head lolls to the side, filling his vision with the squig's furrowed brow. "Keep watch while I close me eyes for a second-" ooh, what's a good name- "Gobbla." Runtgit chuckles as the squig nudges him again, not noticing its desperation or hearing its increasingly panicked whines. Yeah, Gobbla's a great name. "We'll show 'em all, won't we, Gobbla? We got fings to do..."
One goblin, out of hundreds of millions to live and die in this mountain. No one will remember this one's life; no one will celebrate this one's death.
But for the runty goblin that could have been known as Skarsnik, what remains of his life is filled with visions of cunnin' and conquest astride the largest squig ever known, and the simple joy of finding the one companion that no one could ever take from him.
