goblinscribe

goblinscribe

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The goblin spoke passionately to the people. "You must fight!" he shrieked. "Get off the stage!" the barkeep muttered. "The king is mad!" "Get out my my inn!" "Join the goblin ghetto in rebellion! Join us!" The innkeeper tried to grab the goblin, but Grast was too quick. "Fight!" The patrons were ignoring him, though a few cast curious glances in his direction. They did not seem inspired. And NaNoWriMo approaches. Bad writing is a good practice. ;D

Comfort. It was an alien feeling to the goblin. And it would remain alien. When the dwarves had come, barging into his home, he had had none. The dwarves wanted his blood. He'd killed their king. And the other goblins had escaped. They needed something to take out their righteous anger on, and they had him. He stood now, before fifty-odd dwarves. They eyed him with hatred. He stared back at them defiantly. Comfort. What would comfort him now? Betrayed, alone, and about to die.

Morality. The goblin questioned it often. It was a sticky issue, to be sure. He was pretty sure some morals would frown on him trying to murder the king's daughter. She was a witch, of course. And she was up to something, Still, doing it without proof. Some folk would get hung up on it. Not Grickmackle, though. The goblin did what was best for his country. As he always did. And no moral priest was going to give him orders. Besides the fellow conspirator who was giving him his orders now, of course. But Brother Artilo was a good sort, not preachy.

edge

Living on the edge is a tricky business. Garble the goblin didn't much fancy it. He didn't much fancy spending five minutes there, in fact, but that was where he was now. When the elves had held him at gunpoint, he hadn't expected they'd force him onto the plank. But force him they did. And now he had no plan on getting away. Good thing he had dynamite.

braid

The braided rope was strong as cable, the goblin observed. "That'll do well for the purpose it's got." He ran down the hallways, through the dark castle they had stolen from the dwarves, and threw the rope to his kingly master. The much larger goblin nodded. "Good work, ropesmith." "It'll do to hang the dwarf, I think!" "Indeed, it will hang the king well."

half

The goblins stared blankly at the broken artifact. The massive sword had been cut clean in two by the horrid ghostly beast that stood before them. "All that work..." one murmured. The beast cackled. "You've been searching a while. Well, your search is over. You failed." "We found it," the lead goblin countered. "And lost it. You failed. And now I get to eat."

This was surely a cause for celebration. The dictator was dead, felled by five arrows. The archers in turn had been executed by the guards, of course, but the guards could not stop the people from rejoicing. Unfortunately, they had other ways to prevent happiness. They were not to be trifled with, for they alone were trained to work with mages.

The goblin looked up, and ducked as five bullets went over his head. "Crap. I think they're still there." He turned to his dwarf partner. "What you suggestin'?" The dwarf shrugged, reloading his crossbow. "I say we make a break for it." "It'd be a lot easier if the men with the rifles would leave us be!" The goblin nocked an arrow to his bow. "I don't think they will, though."

pouch

What was in the pouch? The goblin stared, wide-eyed. He'd been entrusted with this 'sacred relic', to protect it from the marauding ogres. But...surely he should escape the burning city before looking inside. But what was in it? But,..burning... He couldn't resist. The goblin opened the pouch. And the city exploded with light. A tiny little imp stood before the goblin.

The idea of an average item is a silly concept. That's what you'll read if you look at what's been written on the site. Nothing is average. Everything is unique. Is that so? If reality is colored by our perceptions, and we perceive things to be average...we brand most things as such. Except ourselves and those we know well. Death is average when it happens to others. So is a rare disease. It's all average. Nothing is important, truly important, to our own self-interest.

writing since 2011 · 14 entries · 12 days shown up

each square is a day—lit means Goblin showed up.

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12days written

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on this day 15 years ago

Goblin wrote about celebrate
“This was surely a cause for celebration. The dictator was dead, felled by five arrows. The archers in turn had been executed by the guards, of course, but the guards could not stop the people from r…”

the words Goblin reaches for

goblinaveragedwarfnowbreakhumanstaredgoblinsdwarvesfightstoodfivecourseworkfailedking