Category Archives: Goblin

Why the Grump Hated Frostfell


Every goblin in Gibberville liked Frostfell time a lot

BUT…

Grimagus
Grabblerouser
Gigglegibber
Did NOT.

Grimagus hated Gifting Day! That whole Frostfell time!
When gifting and gabbing and giggling gave cheer.

It could be he thought his own gifts weren’t quite right.
It could be, mayhaps, that his funds were too tight.

But the reason most likely – and let us be blunt –
Was the horrible youth he had spent as a runt.

He thought of the times when he was quite so small
That other Gigglegibbers called him a Goofball.

Grimagus moped in the corner or they tossed him around
And he peeped not a word; he would not make a sound.

His lunch coin would fall from his pockets with ease
As the other Gigglegibbers taunted and teased.

Though now he is rich and owns the whole town
Those were sad times when they called him a clown.

Grimagus grew into a mischievous teener
And wider and richer and quite a lot meaner.

Over time, Grimagus outgrew being a chump.
In fact, all the Gigglegibbers now called him the Grump.
He was grumpy and snarly and bossy most days
Especially during the goblins’ few holidays.

Holiday time always made the Grump bleak.
He remembered those days when he was young and weak.

And the festive time he hated, hated most of all
Was Frostfell time, when folks tall and small
When folks young and old, and folks far and near
Would exchange little presents and be of good cheer.

“They’re buying their presents,” he said now with a growl.
“Gifting Day is tomorrow! That day, oh, most foul!”

HE pounded his fist and he cried with a sneer,
“There will be NO Gifting Day! Not no-how, this year!”

He thought of the elves, with their boxes and bows.
He thought of them singing and twinkling their toes.

The thought of those elves made him quite sneery.
They were chipper and sparkly and impossibly cheery.

“They’ve never been sad, never gone without gifts…”
“And that is something I simply must fix.”

“I’ll stop Frostfell time!” his eyes glinted with glee.
“I’ll start in the cities! I’ll make them all flee!”

The Grump plotted how he could bag up the goods
That were sure to bring Frostfell time cheer to the ‘hoods.
“I’ll take all the feasts and baubles and toys”
“That were meant for all the good girls and boys!”

The Grump found himself empty boxes and bags.
He then bundled up in some tatters and rags.

And he raced through the villages. He races through the ‘hoods.
He swiped and he stole and he took what he could.

He took the wrapped presents. He took the cooked feasts.
The Grump even took the pies of minced meats!

And as he was leaving, his sack bulging with stuff,
The adventurers shouted, “Enough is enough!”
“We know you’re unhappy because of the past”
“When the other Gigglegibbers made you an outcast.”

They gathered around him and he braced for a fight.
“Don’t be mad!” said one. “We will put the past right.”

“Though you were put down and all your presents got broke,”
“Is that a reason to take from innocent folk?”

Snarled the Grump, “Do not judge my sad childhood.”
“But,” said one tiny elf, “You used to be good.”

And deep down inside, the Grump felt himself sway
He had once been good; what had made him this way?

The Grump stared at the small group and realized at last
That they weren’t being mean; they were all just downcast.

And he knew deep inside he was no Frostfell-hater!
He’d hidden his heart like a prestidigitator!

He’d give back the presents. He’d give back the feasts.
He’d even return all the pies of minced meats!

The littlest elf extended her hand and invited the goblin to visit her land.
“Come stay with us!” said the elf, “We’ll help you stay true!”

And that’s exactly what

Grimagus
Grabblerouser
Gigglegibber did,
too.

Treants


The woodlands are filled with a mysterious beauty. Some of that beauty is due to the unseen influence of mana. Infused with mana, sentient beings known as treants are the guardians of the woods. This is their story.

“Treants,” by various authors — Being a collection of the thoughts and feelings evoked by these fascinating forest creatures.

“It nearly ripped my arms off.” — Griffon Barkstripper, Baubbleshire, after mistaking a drowsy treant for a willow and attempting to remove its bark to brew some tea. Lesson: A treant’s bite is worse than its bark.

“Are those…eyes?” — overheard in the Orcish Wastes, followed by a high-pitched scream. The Orcish Wastes are the known habitat of a darker form of treant that is preoccupied with exterminating any other being in its path. They apparently view everyone else as the cause of the decay in their lands. Lesson: If it has eyes, it can see you.

“A single treant can breathe life into a forest,” Daryann Stormrider, wood elf of the Willow Wood. The breath of the treant may be a source of renewing the concentration of mana within a forest, although this is not proven. Lesson: Wood elves know the woods.

“Arbos is father and mother to all trees,” anonymous dryad, Oakmyst Forest. In mythology, Arbos is often cited as the tree from which all other trees sprung. Apparently, this relationship extends to the sentient treants as well. Lesson: Even a potential enemy has parents.

“Put that out!” an elderly treant to a camper lighting an improper campfire. Treants may be living beings, but they are still made of the same fibers as other trees. Generally, if you are in a deciduous forest, the treants there will appear as deciduous trees rather than coniferous trees. Lesson: Make sure your fires are completely out before abandoning a campsite.

“It’s magic!” a Runnyeye goblin surprised by a treant, immediately before being crushed by its roots. Treants are very strong physically, however they are also well-known magic users. In some areas, magic-wielding treants outnumber other treants three to one. Lesson: This could be magic!

“Mmm. Jumjum juice,” Xanuusus, a treant in the old Northern Karana Plains. As with most sentient creatures (and some that are not), jumjum is an excellent way to make friends. There is no guarantee that this will work with all treants, but it could be worth a try. Lesson: Sometimes, it is better to give than to hoard but it may be impossible to tell when.

“Zzzzzzz…” a sleeping treant in Nektulos Forest. As they age, treants tend to become less mobile. It could be the result of their sap flow slowing, making them more sleepy. Eventually, treants pause for longer and longer naps, finally losing all mobility and turning into regular trees. Lesson: Not every great oak sprang from a normal acorn.

“Sharp axes make for small treants,” a Bloodskull lumberjack battling treants in the Orcish Wastes. Sadly, many treants have been turned into kindling by the orcs who continue to clear large swaths of land. While a lone orc is no match for a healthy treant, the orcs send in vast numbers of lumberjacks when they suspect a treant is living amongst the trees in their way. Lesson: Even the oldest and strongest can be felled by strategic planning.

I hope this information provides you with enough basic information about treants that you will be able to learn more about them on your own. Remember to walk carefully through the forests and beware of all big sticks!

The New Path


The New Path
Words of N’Gurai of Anetiff
What we do now, will claim the Age of Destiny from those that follow the faiths above.

The One has spoken. His children shall listen. Where once we were brothers at war, we now unite under N’Gurai. The blood feud must end. Our fight should not be between the forsaken sibling rodent races, but between below and above. The master plan has been altered. N’Gurai has spoken his lipless words. We are to unite all the children of below. We are to become an army against light. We are to become the army of below, the Serilian Horde.
A false prophet and king shall be chosen and he shall carry the name of the supreme father. This king shall journey to the far tunnels of the Underfoot to bring the word of N’Gurai. This word shall unite and those that refuse to listen shall be deconstructed. The king shall tread upon the abyss until an army can be raised to claim the kingdom of the defiled children of below, the dwarves.

Our horde must be strong of fist and weak of mind. First among the armies shall be the ursans, the bugbears of Clan Terrok. So easily these creatures can be led astray. From the Dens of Deepforest these combatants will be summoned. They once fought for their king, but he shall soon be deposed. King Grizlok will show his true colors with some guile of our own. A king weak in battle and weak in word shall be dethroned and the new army shall be raised.

Our horde must be maintained and must be supplied. From the dank factories of Clan Grungetalon shall be summoned. Where goblinoids tinker, tamper and tailor for the dark and sinister gnomes, they shall now be persuaded towards the new path. A truth half told will herald the weakminded goblin to revolt for a rising faith. We are not the children of two, but rather, the children of one. Through the name of Bolgin the Grungetalon shall be drawn to us.

Our horde must retain a strong spiritual foundation. Blesssed by Brell, we shall be. From the tunnels and caves of the Black Sun Sea, Clan Kragbak shall be summoned. For those blinded by faith, a new direction is not easily taken. We shall present false scrolls that speak lost words of below. So strong will these words be that they shall spawn a false apostle and a false religion. A war of faiths shall take place. In the wake of this bloody war, our new religion shall prevail. In this new religion the path to the horde shall be blazed. We cannot find the Kragbak, they must find us.

Our horde shall fling powdered death and be protected by the mixtures of magic. A union of societies from worlds apart shall grant this to us. From the dank cavernous tombs of the Ivory Graveyard we shall call upon the Shrool. These being of the forbidden harvests shall be lured to us through the promise of eradication of all green from above. Their final war shall become part of ours so that their secrets of sinister sowing may empower our army. Let the hoodwinking hobbits of the Sunless being this alliance.

Our horde forges shall burn bright with the ancient secrets of steel. Long has the vast foundry empire of the Iron Lords of Crundom belonged to the Red. Within the Inferno Abyss the prophet shall speak in whispers. The ears of the Iron Lords shall be filled with the promise of forgotten riddles. The formulas of the great Hatch shall be their beacon to alliance. Our promises shall be greater then the Red’s threats. Many will die to join us, but the secrets will be ours.

Our horde must see what our foes see. our horde must know what our foes know. Our horde must make a forbidden alliance, an alliance with those of above. From the… (The book has taken great water damage and the words begin to bleed and blur beyond this point.)

The Littlest Hill Giant


(A Tale From the Alliance of Stone)

The Littlest Hill Giant
The story of Grumbor of the Offaltop

Preface
Giant tales tell of the littlest Hill Giant, Grumbor Offaltop, and the role he has to play in the Alliance of Stone between the goblins and the hill giants that broke Venril Sathir’s hold on Karnor. Grumbor was a giant of uniquely diminutive (for a giant) stature, and some owe the willingness of the goblins to listen to the Hill Giant negotiation party to this particular feature of Grumbor’s personage.

This story was transcribed in the early time of Firiona Vie, when we first came and made our bid at establishing a hold in this savage land, and is believed to be from Grumbor’s own mouth, though by that time he would have been far advanced in years. The transcriber was doubtless slain with the first devastation of Firiona Vie, but their parchments were preserved in the ruins.

Let this tale remind us that even the most savage races have their own heroes, and that the essence of being a hero is not virtue or civility, but a passion for the greater good that endures in even the most insurmountable odds. – Borowyn Skydancer, scholar of Firiona Vie

Why, I’ve always been small. When I popped out of my mother, they almost didn’t notice me. That was, til I started screaming. Then they looked at the small thing and wondered what misfortune was theirs. You being so little, you probably don’t think anything of my size, but think of one of your folk coming barebly above your waist, and you’ll know why I were the shame of the Offaltop.

My mother loved me though, the way all mothers love even their weakest runts, and she were mighty protective of me. I weren’t allowed to throw boulders or uproot trees with the other boys, and when it came time to learn to fight and defend the Offaltop, she claimed me for a sick one and made me stay in bed. Finally, my father changed that, saying it were shame enough I was a runt, and only worse I couldn’t fight, so I was let to learn to fight at a range.

Since all I did was fire a bow and throw a spear, I became the best shot in the tribe. And it were for this that I was finally seen to have some worth, and allowed to go with the party to speak with the gobbys about the coming war. I had never been much to my tribe, and feared the thought of leaving something awful, but I wanted to prove myself to them. For all they had done and said, they were my people, and they faced a terrible danger. I wanted to do whatever I was able to help preserve us. By that time, the rotting flesh eaters were on us on all sides, and though we knew not much about them, we knew they were worse than the goblins. We’d fought so much with the gobbers, though, it seemed an alliance was more than we could ever hope for. We went anyway though. What else could we do? The first of us to go to the gobbers came back a battered and bruised. The gobbers hadn’t let them get close enough to speak any words. The second time we went, we were sure to have a gobber scout dragged behind us on a rope, so they knew better than to fire on us.

I went with this second group. As we approached, the gobbers came out to speak about their scout on the rope. When they caught sight of me, they all stared with wide little gobber eyes. When it were noticed that I was the focus of their attentions, our leader shoved me toward them, telling me not to shame us. I approached the gobbers, and when I opened my mough to say something, they all laughed in their high gobber way. It were about as much as I could stand. I had proved myself a warrior, and was due respect.

I threw my spear so that it struck a tree behind one of the fancier dressed gobbers with a terrible thud. I said then, “Don’t take that for a mistake. I were aiming high. We need tot talk.” The gobbers quit laughing then, and the fancy dressed gobber said, “What do you want, giantses?”

“We want to talk about fighting together,” I said.

“Fighting together?” she asked. “Why would giantses want to fight with us?”

“The rotting flesh eaters take anything,” I said. “And will soon take everything if we don’t fight.” The gobby was quiet, and then turned to speak quietly with other gobbers. Soon after, she turned back and said, “We’ll talk, but only if you some little giant. We likes you little giant. You are not so hard to talk to without hurting our necks.” All the gobbers did their laughing, but this time I didn’t feel they were laughing at me, but at all of us for what we had to do. You may know we did end up fighting beside the gobbers, but they were only willing if promised them the great mine Konikor, and if I stayed with them as the representative of the hill giants. That first fancy dressed gobber, Irikia, came to be a friend of mine, and we fought along side each other to destroy the rotten flesh eaters and the other hoards of their master. I was also there when we convinced the dog men to fight with us. The dog men did not like me so much. They wondered why the hill giants would send their weakest to speak for them, but I showed the dog men what my aim could do, and won their respect.

It was never my surprise that the rotten flesh eaters fell. When the dog men turned on them, and they faced the might of the giant, gobber, and the dog man, we crushed them and drove them back. But as you may also know, we did not stay friends with the gobbers. This was also not so surprising. Goblins and hill giants were never meant to be friends. I never knew quite what happened, though, to bring about that end, but one day Irikia came to me, throwing gobber insults at me as fast as she were able.

“The lies of the hill giants!” she hissed. “You always lie!” I asked her what she meant, and she told me that the mine we had offered them would never be theirs; that they had learned we did not mean to give it to them. Now, I was with the Offaltop, but I had never heard any speak of this. I told her I believed the mine to be theirs, but she refused to believe me, calling me a liar like all my people, and that being their runt didn’t change that.

I was surprised how it hurt when she threw me out. I were lucky she didn’t kill me, but even in all her anger, she gave me a head start. In time, the gobbers did pursue me, but only after I had gotten far enough to make my way back to the Offaltop in safety. I told them of what was coming, and then we fought the War of Lies against the gobbers for many long years. How the rotten flesh eaters and their master much have laughed at us then! But I suppose it is true that goblins and giants were never meant to be friends.

I saw Irikia once while fighting. I could have thrown a spear straight at her head, but I didn’t. She could have let loose poison tipped arrows at me, but she didn’t either. We just looked away and killed each other’s kin. I don’t know what happened of Irikia, but my tribe killed many goblins that day, and she were probably one of them. After that second war had been fought as long as anyone could stand to fight it, it ended without us or the gobbers truly winning. I was through with fighting then. I had almost lost my leg, and still walk with a limp to this very day.

I left the Offaltop and their wars and took to living on me own, though I continued to hunt rotting flesh eater and other threats to the tribe on my own. They never did ask me back. For when I was no longer fighting in their wars, I went back to being the runt and the shame, and so the Offaltop were not sad to see me go. My old mother was long dead by then, and my father had always let me do as I would. Sometimes I still catch sight of an Offaltop or two, but they treat me like they would an animal whose meat is no good for eating. Not a threat, but not of use either.

I hope to be taken to my people when I die, but I do not know who would know of my death and think to come find me. It is good enough to know that when I am gone, though, the Offaltop will still be here, though your kind and many others seem to be moving on to the land. I should kill you, probably, but I am too old now, and I am not sure you have come to destroy the Offaltop the way the rotten flesh eaters did. I tell you not to think of crossing the Offaltop, though. Not unless you wish a quick death.

Scholar’s Note: The following notes were jotted at the end of the transcript, as though the transcriber had planned to later write this all out with a narrative flow.
Quiet then. His rough manner of speaking lowered to a hush. Thought maybe he would cry, but do giants cry? Opens his mouth as if to say something, but nothing comes out. He’s done. That’s all I will get from him.

Perfect illustration of his people’s dual nature: terrifying giants made small by the further incursions of other races. Their relentless defense of their people even against great odds. Friendship with the goblin is strange, but he speaks about her friendship with genuine warmth, and of her betrayal with undisguised pain. Maybe goblins and giants can actually be friends. Just not likely to be. One leg seems shorter than the other. A scar across his pocketed forehead. A weathered bow hangs on the wall. Warrior, true. Hero, truer.

The Hammer of Below


The Hammer of Below begins amidst the conflict of the unworthy. It is a relic whose path led through the abyssal lair of the last child of the Ocean Lord. It is within that hold, a prison of Prexus some would say, that the omega did vie with the intellect. This battle of egos will someday begin the mortal quest of Stormhammer.

Deep sixed within an oubiette, many adventurers have perished. He is the last of his kind, the last of the Norrathian children of Qisallis. With a physique formed of fish and Dal, the omega guards his keep. Those who enter find themselves eternal residents of this deathly realm. What was once a city of deep learning has become a memorial of a race long forgot. The omega allows no departures from this ancient place. Here by his side the creatures of Qisallis flutter and float and incarcerate those who seek what is not theirs. No one escapes, but the intellect defies this law.

A great power of the abyss meets a legendary intellect. Such a confrontation is made for the ages. It all began with a threat of knowledge, a release of a secret… a taunt of the highest power. The great intellect that hailed from Mount Erudition delved into the ancient ages and uncovered the reason for the omega, the hidden force behind an extinction of the children of the Ocean Lord. Entering into the murky ruins, he entered armed with only this lost truth. It is all he needed.

With a threat and a boast the intellect defies his host. The one from below is enraged and mad that his secret is released, a secret of great sadness. To the one that did taunt, death would have arrived if it were not for the supernatural stalemate. A power that was the unwitting end of a race is also wielded by a highman. The intellect directs a threat of destruction if his demands are not met. The power that could destroy an entire race within the blink of a titan’s eye could be unleashed by one who has studied and mastered the many circles of the arcane. The omega must comply and the great intellect wins the day.

The keep of the abyss has been compromised and the great intellect threatens to return. But the omega strikes back in silence and within a vision granted the eyes of the intellect shall be redirected. A vision is given of a great relic of below, a hammer of the gods that once lay in the hands of the first kind of Kaladim. This vision was granted to an unscrupulous stout by the name of Duskan Hammerhand. In the vision, the hammer is secreted beneath the great cauldron, within a barnacle-encrusted tower. Here it is guarded by goblins of the abyss. Here is where Hammerhand shall find it.

Duskan recognized the holy relic of the dwarves. Delusions of grandeur lead him to a foolish attempt to retrieve the hammer. The witless bandit dives into the cauldron and locates the citadel of the abyss. His entry depicts his great skill, but the halls of water are not gracious to guests. The goblins of the abyss are quick to spring to action. Their movements were as fluid as the tides. His dreams of being the lone hero are in vain, his mission into the barnacle citadel, futile. Barely escaping with his life, the stout rises to the surface. He knows he must return to Kaladim and lick his wounds. The glory of rescue shall be a joint venture of rogue and guard.

Crawling along the short, near death and barely coherent, Duskan manages to convince a party of passing trotters to escort him to the kingdom of the dwarves. There, Duskan is brought before King Kazon Stormhammer and explains his vision and his ordeal. The king organizes an expedition to recover the hammer. At the lead of this assault are three dwarven champions; Boric Stormhammer, Kalek Orefinder and Fenric Ogrebane. These three heroes are aided by guard and trotter. Trotters have a tendency to fall into the ventures of the ancient empires. What it is they seek is not glory, but riches and power. Their mettle is soon tested as the mission to retrieve Dagnor’s Fist begins.

The march to the cauldron is long and hard. The heroes of the kingdom reached the shores. Battling back the vanguard of the abyss was done at ease. The battle continued into the murky depths of the cauldron. The heroes breached the barnacled-keep and cut down the forces within. The final defender would not be so easy, or alone. The goblin Tide Lord faced the heroes in a battle for the hammer. Although the Tide Lord was powerful, the heroes found an advantage. When victory was near, Phinigel Autropos did appear. With power unmatched, the omega stymies the heroes, driving them back. Then without reason, he vanished. The heroes are victorious, so it would seem. The hammer is won.

The victory march back to Kaladim is interrupted. A Teir’Dal hero and his dragoon raiding party appear and a violent battle ensues. In the skirmish, the heroes are outnumbered and each falls against insurmountable odds. Valkis D’Vinn, leader of the dragoons, carefully seals the captured hammer in an enchanted chest, and orders his group to march to the nearby kingdom of the orcs and ally to Neriak. But Fenric is not dead! His ability to feign death is unrivaled. Through words heard upon the field of defeat, he heard of the destination of the hammer, Crushbone Keep. When the evil army is departed, the injured hero crawls back to Kaladim and with him comes the location of the hammer.

A final operation to reclaim the hammer of Dagnor Butcherblock is undertaken. An army of Stormguard and trotter is organized. No force could keep them from reaching the doors to Crushbone Keep. While Stormguard warriors battle Crushbone centurions a band of heroes enters to find the chest that holds the hammer. The sealed adamant chest of Thex passes into the possession of the heroes. The victorious force returned to Kaladim to deliver the chest to King Kazon. Unfortunately, the chest was impregnable, a stolen device of gnomish invention. The hammer was locked within.

Within the borderlands of the Teir’Dal Empire the key of the chest awaits. Such a place is unfamiliar to a dwarf, but not to trotter. The trotters are hired to retrieve the key. In a long expedition into the Ashlands of Tunaria, the final heroes do find the owner of the key. Captain Na’Var and his dragoons are met. The struggle for the key is long, but the trotters proved their strength. The key is taken and makes its way across the Ocean of Tears to meet the hands of the king of Kaladim. The heroes are honored and the Hammer of Butcherblock has returned to its home.

But this is not the artifact behind these words. In this tale of the hammer of the first kind of Kaladim, the riddle of Stormhammer rests. What once restrained the glorious radiance of the hammer now reveals the riddle. Through a path of a divided key, it will lead a hero. Listen well to whispers of champions and the journey shall begin. The Stormhammer, hammer of below, hammer of the thunder lords, hammer forged in the Underfoot and lost to all. This hammer shall wait beyond turmoil, beyond war and beyond cataclysms. Within Destiny it awaits.

The Desert Serpent


By a concerned Maj’Dulian
An unusual political treatise that some suspect was written by an outsider to stir up trouble within the city’s walls.

There are few among us today who can truly appreciate Maj’Dul for what it originally represented, in contrast to what it now represents.

The Dervin Empire was once the powerful desert serpent, winding itself about people and geography. The change from that once noble position should have been evident years ago.

One need only review a page from the diary of a young barrashar who has spent a good deal of time in Maj’Dul.

“It is a strong city. Though its people seem resolved in their ways, it isn’t until one learns how unstable their ways are that this resolve falls short.”

Let me underline that the fifth word used in this description of Maj’Dul is “city.” We were once an empire birthed from every pore in the desert.

Perhaps we should rewrite our own history: “Dissatisfied with the lot of his people, Ahkari set out to build a small city.”

One must wonder, then, how an empire became merely a city in the eyes of a foreigner.

Are we not desert-hardy to the last? Do we not protect ourselves from the battering rams of advancing cultures? Do we not hold power over the region?

We are all of what we once were and we are also nothing of what we once were. We have lost not ourselves as a people, but ourselves as an empire.

And if the barrashar know this, then so must the desert have known long ago.

Perhaps you will question whether or not this is a real problem. For, if it is merely barrashar talk, then what has it got to do with the real Maj’Dul, the real empire?

I point you in the direction of our disgruntled citizens. The poetry in “Of Maj’Dul Am I” is a perfect example of the suppressed, yet evident, cry for change. Read that, as well and see then if you do not agree.

Why are we lost?

Due to improper leadership, we find ourselves now without purpose or direction.

Look at our city life and ask yourself: in the midst of a cultural invasion, why is it our focus lies still on the Games? Why have we allowed the continued existence of the Rujarkian Orcs?

Why do the lands once called ours contain enemy tribes, goblins, orcs, harpies, any number of nuisances that threaten not empires but people?

The Games as a means by which to govern a people must be abolished. My livelihood and your livelihood should not compete for each other.

Most especially, we should not gamble on who should prosper and who should not. The Games provide – and should continue to provide – entertainment.

Government, however, should come from the intellectual elite. To weigh and pit laws against each other is to seed revolution and we must take that bait, or we shall surely fail as a people.

Our leadership situation is stagnant. What was once a temporary measure – to restore power to its rightful owner – has become instead a distraction.

Dukarem, Ishara, Neriph: all three worry less about the people of Maj’Dul than how they might gain control of them.

Their petty games afford them a temporary power they covet, but none has the leadership needed to take what they consider theirs.

Consider Mudeef, wielder of the supreme power. It is with relief that I can say Mudeef does not preoccupy himself with the Games as do the true sons of Maj’Dul.

But it is with sadness that I say nobody knows with what Mudeef occupies his time. What has Mudeef changed for the better in Maj’Dul? In fairness one might counter: “What has Mudeef changed for the worse in Maj’Dul?”

If the answer to both of those questions is “nothing,” then he is no ruler.

To promote stagnancy is not a virtue. Some argue Mudeef stands as a barrier between an empire and a cliff, preventing us from flinging ourselves off the edge.

What is scarcely discussed is what lies at the bottom of that cliff. It is not the rock-hidden waters we are led to believe.

At the bottom of that cliff lies our identity as a people, dropped there long ago and forgotten. Through no malice of his own, Mudeef is preventing us from regaining our empire’s soul.

Where, then, lies Maj’Dul’s future?

It is simple: the future of Maj’Dul is found within its people.

Are we, as a people, content with stagnancy? Does the lure of the arena prevent us from seeing a future – nay, present – in which Maj’Dul is a city and nothing more?

Or, do the Games merely open our eyes to that vision through tinted glass in which it is acceptable?

Neither answer is sufficient, if Maj’Dul is to survive.

A simple revolution is all that can save Maj’Dul. And as citizens, revolution falls under our jurisdiction.

When our leaders do not make safe our lands, we must do so ourselves, and force conflict upon our people.

The Rujarkian Orcs we once thought defeated; this is not so, they hide within their crags. No near-defeated race – and orcs are not merely animals, they are indeed a race – can let defeat stand. They will return and they will return in force. We must preempt this.

The well-known of Maj’Dul must be ousted. It is clear enough to those who learn our history on who the rightful leader of Maj’Dul should be (indeed, I had a barrashar lecture me on this point once).

Right of ascension is acceptable in times of prosperity. As it stands we must cut all lineage. Our three sons do not represent Maj’Dul any more than Mudeef, and none of the four succeed in growing or stabilizing the empire.

Interim governments must be shattered and new power must arise.

We must put effort and money into strengthening our empire, letting not orc nor harpy nor goblin nor any other force keep us from our sandy homes.

This process must start slowly; we can dot the land with outposts.
Through trade and war, the process will sweep across the desert, leaving nothing but the Dervin Empire in its wake.

Finally, we must find our serpent head. And in swallowing its enemies – political and military – it shall grow the desert serpent of Maj’Dul.

Once again our empire shall coil itself about the desert regions, striking at all who would threaten us. Once again our empire shall protect and encircle its children.

And once again our empire shall own her desert home.

Sailing with Three Sheets to the Wind


Sailing with Three Sheets to the Wind:
The Tale of One Halfling’s Trials and Tribulations Through Norrath’s Transcendent Taverns

By: Tarquin “Tiggy” Neusbickle, III

…when all of the sudden Ol’ Marty Blanketstain comes barelling around the corner, huffing and puffing; demanding that I owe him another flagon of ale on account of the one he spilled on his brother, Woolert.

So that’s when everyone turned to me and asked exactly how the goblin got stuck inside the dumbwaiter. Of course, having no real experience working in the business end of a kitchen, I hadn’t a clue that what they were speaking of was in fact a mechanical food delivery device and not the dish-washing ogre who was clearing a table behind me….and so I told him, in my sternest of stern voices, “Sir, I don’t know what sort of name Constable is, but I can assure you, your jurisdiction here at this table is nill!”
That was about the time the guards showed up with the manacles.

Across his back he wore cloak made of shimmering scales, white as snow and tough as iron. Hide from a white dragon it must have been for I had never seen anything else like it. As he began to speak those strange words of magic I know so little about I saw his breath form in the air as if he were speaking out in the winter’s cold, yet we were inside Marthrop’s cozy inn. Suffice to say, the would-be coin thief took his hand away from the wizard’s coin purse immediately and was out the door in seconds flat. I never did get a chance to ask that wizard where he got his fancy cloak. I sure would have liked one myself!

Rules of the Sandscrawler Clan


This book appears to be written in broken Norrathian.
Rules of the Sandscrawler Clan

sir=
If goblin accuse other goblin, and that goblin jump from crag into water, if him sink and die then first goblin take all things of his house. But if water not kill goblin then first goblin put to death and second goblin take all things of his house.

sir=
If goblin accuse other goblin but not prove what him claim, them him be put to death.

sir=
If goblin trial prove later be wrong, then goblins who make judgment no longer allowed to do so, and pay five times difference in fine them make before.

sir=
Goblin steal sacred items from tribe be put to death. Also goblin who gets sacred items be put to death.

sir=
If goblin not find something him own, then find other goblin with it, and other goblin say “me get from other other goblin, others see me,” and if first goblin know someone who know him have that thing before, then all goblins get together before goblin trial. If goblin trial find first goblin or him friend lying then them put to death. If trial find second goblin or him friend lying them them put to death. If goblin trial find first and second goblin both telling truth, then it fault of goblin who give item to second goblin, and him put to death. When this happen, first goblin get him things back, and second goblin get money from house of dead goblin.

sir=
If goblin steal baby of other goblin them him put to death.

sir=
If two goblin say one baby belong both, and them two goblin not have baby together, then two goblin must perform rite of ownership ritual by jumping from crag into water. If both emerge then they jump again. This happen until one or both not come out. If bot not come out then chief give baby to goblin of choosing.

sir=
If goblin try steal and him caught then him put to death.

sir=
If goblin away for battle and him things given to another, when him come back from battle then him things become him things again.

sir0=
If goblin traitors meet in tent, and tent-holder not turn in and capture them, then tent-holder put to death.

sir1=
If goblin take shoes from other goblin and break, then goblin trial guess at value of shoes and goblin who take must pay three times that much. If shoes less value than ones goblin who took have, then him can give his shoes and be free of fine.

sir2=
If goblin take bed of other goblin, goblin harmed get to take three beds of first goblin.

Goblin law strong and keep goblins strong. Chief of old times not foolish and not dumb. Him see way to make goblins of his see proper way to act. Chief of old times know rules written down be better.

More Adventures of Jorbo and Mappy


This book is titled “More Adventures of Jorbo and Mappy”. It is the story of two halfling boys and how they happened upon some exciting adventures.
Jorbo and Mappy, two friends who left for an exciting journey one day, happened across a very interesting person. Looking just like a halfling, the man had lizard scales covering his entire body, and two small little horns sprouting from the top of his head. He was chewing on a small wooden stick, and would puff smoke between words. Interested at their discovery, the friends asked him if the man knew where to find adventure.

Laughing and puffing smoke, the odd halfling introduced himself as the Drafling. He said he knew many different places where to find adventure, and offered to show the two boys where to find it. Taking him up on his invitation, both Jorbo and Mappy followed him to adventures they never would have found on their own.

The first interesting thing the Drafling showed the two boys was a goblin who could speak three languages. The two boys asked the goblin how he was able to do it, and the goblin pointed out that he had three tongues. When they asked where they could find more tongues, the goblin told them that tongues always hid away inside books.

The goblin then offered to trade tongues with the boys. They boys had become rather accustomed to their own tongues, so they declined. The goblin nodded his head and told them that if anyone ever asks them for their names, they should never give it away. He said that if you give a person your name, you won’t have one anymore, and you won’t know what to call yourself. They knew this was wise advice.

The Drafling patted the boys on the shoulders and said it was time to go. He had already finished eating the stick he was chewing on and was now chewing on another. The Drafling told them that he would now show them other exciting sights. They told the goblin “thank you”, asked him his name, and the goblin said “I don’t know anymore”.

The Dralfing would then take the boys to a grove of trees and told them to watch for what was about to happen. In front of them, there were really small people walking around. One group was a bunch of girls, and the other group was a bunch of boys. Every now and then one of the boys would run over and pull one the girl’s hair, then run back to his friends.

The two friends began to laugh at the sight before them. The Drafling popped them on the back of the head and told them to keep watching. After several more girls were made to cry after having their hair pulled, the little boys started laughing so hard that they didn’t notice a cat had crept up behind them.

As the cat crept closer and closer, the little girls refused to say anything, for they had their hair pulled by those mean boys. Soon enough, the cat pounced on all of the little boys, causing them all to scream for their mothers. Right at the moment it’s mouth was about to gobble up all the boys, the Drafling waved his hand, and the cat disappeared.

The two friends asked the Drafling what had just happened. The Drafling smacked his head and sighed, then told them that he showed them what happens when people are mean. He looked at them, chomped on the stick for a moment, and said not to pull the girls’ hair or maybe they might find a big cat standing behind them. The boys quickly nodded their heads, for they understood that.

The Drafling then told the boys that they would need to find their own adventures, for it was time that he went home. He brought them back to where he found them and said goodbye. Before he left, however, he told them of a few places where they could find some interesting things, gave them a wink, and was gone. Jorbo and Mappy immediately started running for the place where the mysterious halfling had pointed out.

Life Among the Goblins


Goblins abound throughout Norrath, yet it has been extemely difficult to get close enough to them for good observation. I, Trent Burkhart, will infiltrate a goblin tribe in order to understand what makes them so vile and obnoxious. My first step is to tint my body a vile shade of green, shave off my hair and manufacture a loincloth. Wish me luck!
“Life Among the Goblins,” by Trent Burkhart — One man’s journal describing the day-to-day activities of a typical goblin tribe. Appendix by Pearl Honeywine.

Day One — Goblins. The mere sound of the word brings to mind these shapeless, mindless creatures. I have tinted my skin using an extract from a local plant and am wearing a loin cloth that I obtained from a deceased goblin. By walking with a bow-legged slump, I can create the illusion of having the typical pot belly. There is not much I can do about my ears, however after shaving my head, I left a fringe around my temples to comb over the tips of my rather smallish ears. This will have to do.

Day Three — I am currently with the goblins of Runnyeye, in the Enchanted Lands. Thankfully, it is dark enough that no one questions my lack of appropriate ears. The goblin language is guttural and coarse. I have picked up enough of it that I can make the appropriate responses when necessary, though I would rather not speak to these foul, stench-ridden beasts. Why I chose to research goblins is beyond me!

Day Four — I’ve stumbled into something interesting and need to figure out its significance. Otherwise, my days are becoming somewhat monotonous. The evil eyes have used their mystical powers to enslave a variety of creatures to work on behalf of the goblins. It is interesting to note that in prior Ages, the goblins were themselves enslaved! Now the former slaves are the masters, and as I am trying to fit in with the goblins, I have much leisure time on my hands.

Day Seven — Have I really been here for seven entire days? Between sneaking through corridors and foraging up acceptable food, I have found some written records. At least, they are as much of a written record as one might expect of these low-lifes. There are many pictographs and symbols which I am copying down into my journal. Even if I don’t decipher them in the next few days, I shall bring this record with me to my home and work on it there.

Day Eight — Something interesting happened, finally! About a dozen or so goblins, looked like a group of Runnyeye brawlers, set out on a foray and brought back a handful of minotaurs. The minotaurs seemed rather spellbound and very docile at first, but then one of them broke free of whatever control the goblins had and rampaged through the area, killing several of the brawlers. The minotaur was eventually surrounded by the goblins’ war boars and taken down.

Day Ten — After pouring over the various pictographs, I believe I’ve deciphered the goblins’ tome! There are several references to the entities of the ancient times, notably Bolgin and Brell Serilis. While it’s not clear what these tomes mean, I find it fascinating that…wait…someone is coming.

Day Thirteen — I’ve been dispatched with a company of other goblins to the Citadel. I do not know what our purpose there might be, but it was made very clear to me that I am expected to remain there for some time. With any luck, I’ll be able to ditch these filthy tunnelers and head home with my research complete. I’ve finished translating the goblin origins document and just need a quiet hour or two to set it all down. Unfortunately, the Citadel is much busier than the tunnels ever were and I am constantly sent hither and yon.

Day Sixteen — It’s really quite a pleasure to have purpose in my life again. While in those dark tunnels, the days passed slowly because I had nothing to do but wander about lazily, like a goblin. It appears that they realized early on that I was not one of their own, but they were happy to have my company. Indeed, that is why they sent me to the Citadel, so I might be able to do some research in more comfort. Perhaps I’ve been mistaken about these pleasant little fellows all along.

Day Twenty — Busy, busy, busy! That describes my life at the Citadel! I’m in constant demand and it feels great! While I have no time now to dwell upon the possible deeper meaning of the goblin pictographs, frankly, I could not care less! Who cares where these friendly folk came from or whether they have language skills? It’s good to be busy all day long, rather than wonder what would happen should they discover my ruse. I am quite enjoying my new job cleaning out the muck in the war boar stables.

Appendix, by Pearl Honeywine — While in the Enchanted Lands, I found these notes which degenerated from intelligent discourse into random drawings and ideograms. It seems that the evil eyes had gotten hold of our researcher’s mind and managed to change a promising anthropologist into a raving mad slave. Alas for goblin research! At least our friend Master Burkhart will die happy and unaware of what he has lost.