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[King Zultan]

Thob's more of an archeologist than a adventurer at this point.

[mightymushroom]

Thob's certainly not a brewer!

And Alisa's attitude on treating friends as enemies (and enemies as friends?) perfectly matches his conversational behavior. It makes him feel slightly more sympathetic as a character – he's not trying rile anyone's temper by being a passive-aggressive jerk, he's just fulfilling his side of the relationship where everyone is a passive-aggressive jerk.

EDIT: Although, on reflection Alisa is not so much passive-aggressive as aggressive-passive. He starts things, but always appears genuinely upset when others want to continue in the same fashion.

[Dragonsploof]

This is really cool and interesting.

[Cathar]

Maybe the true alcohol is the friends we made along the way ?
Alisa is definitely my favourite character. I love how absolutely big mouthed and totally spineless he is. Best combinaison for a companion. I hope he survives

[Loam]

I'm still around!


Outside Prankcloisters Thob spotted another of those strange caves in the dirt. Predictably it housed another naked outcast; not so predictably, he had company:

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A goblin and an elf, both in the buff although surrounded by cast-off garments and armor. The elf called himself Epeve; the goblin was named Olngo “the Whiskered” (“That would have been a good name!” thought Thob to himself) and claimed to have been a tavern keeper.
   “What’s with all these cave-dwellers?” Thob asked his party, in confidence.
   “I’m not sure we really want to know,” said Cañar.

On the way to Handygrown they passed a small monastery: abandoned, like everything else. Or so they thought. Passing by one of the crumbling buildings Thob heard voices, and took a look inside:

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Several elves stood in the old dormitory, most dressed in ordinary elven garb of cloth, but a few wore some kind of armor, made of… wood? And had swords… also wooden. “Is that… normal?” Thob asked Cañar quietly.
   “Yep,” she said. “The old elves didn’t use metals.”
   Thob nodded slowly. The goblin’s conquest didn’t seem quite as astonishing anymore.
   One of the, er, “swords”men called their little band “The Lucky Sins”—some kind of last survivors of the old elven realm. He gave some parting advice to the party: “We’ve had some trouble with the Speakers of Sanctuary, over in Fort Cyclonebook to the east. If you’re headed that way, watch out! There’s been foul goings-on over there—bone-chilling horror, understand?”
   Thob didn’t understand, but he thanked the elf all the same.

In these northern climes some parts of the plain were too frozen to support anything but the hardiest plants; these “tundras” were almost constantly under heavy fog and clouds:

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As night drew near they spotted a wood-walled fort amid the snowy fields—Cyclonebook.

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Despite the elf’s warnings the place looked calm, and Thob reckoned it’d be warmer inside than out in the weather. The party passed through the old wooden gates, creaking on their hinges.

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Thob saw some goblin soldiers milling around, in the courtyard and buildings. He hailed one, a pikeman, in the mess hall; the goblin returned his greeting cordially. “Better watch out,” said the pikeman, “there’s talk of foul goings-on ‘round these parts.”
   “Uh… so I heard. Just where are these foulnesses supposed to, uh, happen?”
   “Place called ‘Cyclonebook’, I think.”

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But it was in the fort’s bunkhouse that most of the inhabitants dwelt: a large assortment of elves, humans, and goblins, most of them armed but seemingly friendly.

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A number of these folks were officials of some sort: Thob met the “head counselor,” “justiciar,” and the “master of beasts.” But the real leader was an elf named Imi Prestigetaker, who proudly announced that this gang, the Speakers, had been around since the second century.
   Though there was no sign of any “bone-chilling horror,” and the Speakers seemed a pleasant sort, they didn’t seem to want Thob’s party camping in their fort. He and his companions were compelled to make camp in the wilderness nearby, under the cold clouds of the north.

Next morning they approached the edge of another vast tundra; in the distance Thob saw great sheets of ice stretching to the horizon—the frozen waters of the northern ocean:

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Hours of traveling finally brought them close to Handygrown, around which stood clusters of smaller hamlets and villages. The party entered one such village, and approached the mead hall to see if it had any occupants. They hadn’t gotten too close before loud noises, shouts and cries rang from the house—then, several humans burst from the doors and ran screaming in all directions:

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Inside, a dead goblin lay in a pool of blood amidst a few other humans and elves. One of the humans stood over the corpse, and was eyeing the others angrily—but as Thob’s party drew near he turned to them, and charged!
   Strodno stepped up to him and, in a singled swing of her sword, cut an arm from his body.
   Next moment the hostile human was mobbed by nearly everyone present. Even Alisa managed to get a solid stab on the man’s hand. Only Thob stood back and watched the sudden slaughter, wondering just what the hell was going on. It didn’t last long: Strodno caught the assailant as he tried to flee, and nearly separated his torso from his legs.

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After this bloody spectacle things seemed to settle down. Thob talked to some of the folks present, trying to figure out who the attacker had been, and why he tried to fight them. The “head executioner,” a man named Kammat, only told him that there had been an “insurrection”—but he gave no details about the dead man’s identity or allegiances.
   “I hope this sort of thing doesn’t happen often,” Thob said as they left the hall.
   “You mean, random slayings for no apparent reason?” said Alisa. “Better get used to it—it’s a part of goblin ‘culture’ that’s seeped into a lot of the humans and elves around here.”
   “But I’ve met lots of goblins,” Thob said, looking at Strodno, “and none of them ever attacked me!”
   “They’re not all bad,” said Cañar. “But they’re volatile—you never know what might set them off.”

[King Zultan]

What a world of violence we find ourselves in, a person dies in every town we enter.

[Loam]

The party approached Handygrown at dawn, a very large town, but very silent: scarcely anything moved in the snowy streets. All around the perimeter the stone towers, which Thob had learned meant goblin occupation, dotted the hills.

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Alisa looked somewhat overcome at the sight. “This was the ancient capital, right?” said Thob, “of the Prestigious Nation?” The human nodded. “When did the goblins take over?”
   “Long ago,” said Alisa. “And they didn’t really take over—I’ll give you the short history, if you like…”

*   *   *

THE FALL OF THE PRESTIGIOUS NATION

The goblins of the Lost Sins have been our foes since… well, basically forever. They tried to conquer us for centuries, but weren’t able to drive us out.

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Then… they came down from the north, from the dark tower of Kindledsteel: the walking dead.

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They attacked our neighbors, the Strong Empire, and took some towns. But our great Queen Kafek drove them back. The next few decades saw some minor trouble with the undead, but they didn’t break us: they weren’t nearly as much of a problem as the Lost Sins, who we fought alongside the elves.

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Eventually the undead attacks stopped altogether. A century passed in relative peace. But the undead weren’t beaten, only waiting—and when they returned it was in force.

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We—the Prestigious Nation—couldn’t mobilize in time. Turns out the goblins were waiting for this moment. They couldn’t take our towns from us, but the undead proved to be easier targets for them. That’s how they took over—in a short time, half our nation was under goblin dominion, which they of course called “liberation.”

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Meanwhile the undead were still marching. They pushed us back further and further, until finally Handygrown stood alone, our last bastion. Our songs still sing of that battle: with only a hundred men the defenders of Handygrown stood against the undead horde and drove them away—and we heard no more of them for almost a hundred years.

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But out peace didn’t last. When the undead returned in the early 300s… Handygrown couldn’t stand. We had too few fighters and no allies. The city fell.

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That was the end of the Nation as a state. Sure, our people lived on, but only as refugees in the swamp: we had no towns and no armies.
And, of course, who should come marching in behind the undead to “liberate” Handygrown?

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That’s it in a nutshell. The goblins didn’t conquer us—they just stole our land. They’re nothing but bandits and opportunists, however much they boast about their “military might.”

*   *   *

Unlike the other goblin-occupied towns, Handygrown was mostly abandoned. Tower-cap and fungiwood buildings stood empty, while banks of snow piled against doors that clearly hadn’t opened in years. Not everyone was gone: a few folks—goblins, of course—hunkered down in a sizeable tavern:

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But the town certainly wasn’t jumping. Thob expected, as they neared the castle, to find only an empty shell of stone (hopefully with a book or two lying around). But they had just passed the gates of the fortress when they heard voices, and not a few:

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Sure enough the place was packed: dozens of people, goblins, elves, and some large eyeless creatures crowded the floor. Some were even lying down, as all the standing room had been taken—actually, Thob realized, those people were dead. That explained the blood all around, and probably all the vomiting and wounded folks still standing.
   [**I had a picture of this, but accidentally saved over it. Oops.]
No one seemed to know who was in charge. An elf, who introduced himself as a “lord consort,” told Thob that the place was all but abandoned by the goblin officials.
   “Who’s all this crowd, then?” Thob asked.
   “Priests,” said the elf. “Some old human religion, though you wouldn’t know it by the current clergy. They’ve basically taken over here.”

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   “Mind you,” the elf went on, “there’s not much town left to manage. So I guess it doesn’t really matter who’s in charge. As you can see, though,” and here he indicated the blood and bodies, “there’ve been a few… disagreements on that point.”
   “You’re not worried about getting caught up in the fighting?”
   The elf shrugged. “When you’ve lived with the goblins as long as I have,” he said, “you get used to the idea of a violent death.”
   Thob was not quite used to the idea yet, so he decided to clear out before any more “disagreements” broke out.

The party wandered the empty streets until dark. Thob had kept an eye out for a place called the “South Fold”—a counting house—which the administrator in Prankcloisters had told them about. Supposedly someone in there wanted a fantastic jewel returned. But there didn’t seem to be any “South Fold” in town.

[King Zultan]

It seems like were getting closer to finding out what happened to the world, but no closer to finding the booze.

[Loam]

Night fell over the city, and with it the dark cold of the northern lands. The party sheltered in a nearby house and made a small fire to ward off gloom and chill.
   Almost as soon as the fire sprang to life, so did the city: suddenly, from all around, terrifying cries, screams, shrieks, wails and moans split the night air and shocked the adventurers into paralyzed silence.

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   “Did anyone,” asked Strodno in a whisper, “happen to notice the moon last night?”
   “What do you mean?” asked Thob.
   “You remember all those naked people in holes?” she said. “Well… I think I might know what’s up with them.”
   Before she could go on, heavy footfalls thumped down the snowy street outside. Footfalls, and some kind of snorting and slavering. Coming straight for the house.

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The party huddled together in the corner. Thob hoped no chink in the old walls let the light of their fire show in the street. No one breathed. The footsteps got louder—not the sound of goblin feet, nor the tread of boots, but more like the stamp of some hoofed creature. The sounds drew near the fragile, time-worn door of the house…
   …and passed by, shuffling and snorting into the night. Only after several minutes did anyone relax. “What was it?” said Thob, not really expecting an answer.
   “Let’s hope we don’t find out,” said Cañar.

Somehow Thob got some sleep—and woke up the next morning. Fog shrouded the region. There was no sign of whatever had passed in the night, only a trail of disturbed snow and broken vegetation. Still, the party wasted no time leaving Handygrown.

The nearby hamlet of Brandfondled was, supposedly, where a fabulous jewel had been lost in an earlier age. Thob was eager to see if he could find it—it couldn’t be hard to comb a small village like this for something so precious.
   They neared the mead-hall, the obvious place to begin their search. Much to Thob’s chagrin, though not really to his surprise, sounds of battle rang from the hall. He pushed open the door, expecting to see another brawl between goblins.
   Well, he was half right.

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Four goblins lay dead, and not all in one piece. Amid the gory ruin stood two large creatures, half-human and half-beast: one looked vaguely like a twisted sheep; the other, some sort of pig with an elongated snout. Both were covered in blood-matted black hair, eyes aglow as if on fire, and locked in a death struggle.

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Thob stood a moment wondering whether there was any end of new horrors on the surface; then he saw his companions charging the two battling beasts. He sighed, and charged with them, pick raised high.
   Had the monsters not been so absorbed in their own fight, things might have gone much worse. As it happened, the party came out better than they ought to have hoped. Strodno hacked at the terrors with her sword, shearing the sheep-monster’s tail away. The other, pig-like creature bit at her; its teeth glanced away from the goblin’s shirt of steel, but the blow sent her sprawling. A swing of Thob’s pick cracked its skull, while Alisa (showing unusual courage) stabbed it with his spear.
   Cañar, however, had harder luck. The thing’s jaws clamped around her shield arm with a metallic ring, and with tremendous force it ripped the lower half of the elf’s arm away in a spurt of blood. Its victory was short-lived, though, as Thob’s pick dug into its brain.

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   Cañar wasn’t out of the woods, though. The other monster, the black sheep, with amazing dexterity thrust out a leg and wrapped it around the elf’s neck, then threw her bodily across the mead-hall into a wall. But the companions quickly descended on the remaining monster, and with a few more swings Thob had split open its head as well.
   The elf was bleeding profusely, but some of Strodno’s old skill as a surgeon managed to stem the flow, and Cañar, though a little pale, would live. Throughout she was stoic:

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   “Most important thing is,” she said, “it didn’t break the skin: it just clamped onto my gauntlet.”
   “You lost an arm, Cañar,” said Thob. “I don’t see how a flesh wound would be worse.”
   “That’s how it spreads,” said Strodno. “The curse of the were-blood.”
   Thob was made to understand that the naked cave-dwellers were, probably, not crazy ascetics at all, but these “werebeasts” in their ordinary form. “Some choose to live far from civilization, so they won’t endanger others.” Strodno kicked at the misshapen corpses. “These ones thought they could still live normal lives, I guess. Boy, were they wrong.”
   “You mean… these were people we killed?”
   “That’s a philosophical point I don’t want to get into right now.”

To their surprise, the mead-hall still housed a single goblin, cowering amid the treasures at the back of the room.

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His name was Gozru, the so-called “commander” of the “Ruthlessness of Lambs” (an ironic name, especially under the circumstances). Since the party had just saved his life, he was more than willing to let them take from the hall’s armory whatever they wanted (“Not,” said Alisa, “that it’s really his in the first place”). Alisa got a new mail coat of bronze, and some high boots of the same; Cañar took a replacement shield, which she held less than steadily in her one remaining hand.

Having equipped themselves, the party set out (cautiously) to survey the village. All day, just about, they searched for any sign of a jewel, but all the houses were empty, long abandoned and falling to pieces where they stood. After many fruitless hours they called it quits—they had other places to go, and much more important tasks at hand. “And another jewel to find,” Strodno reminded Thob.
   “How long do those were-things stay… were’d?” asked the dwarf.
   “Until the moon changes,” said Cañar. “Maybe it’d be best if we waited here until tomorrow—by then I bet they’ll have settled down.”
   “That’s just what I was thinking,” said Thob.


Sorry for the glacial pace updates have slowed to - I've been busy on a draft of my (IRL) book. But that'll be done this week, so I'll have more time for Thob!

[King Zultan]

I'm okay with the pace RL takes precedence, also what's your book about?

[Superdorf]

Sorry for the glacial pace updates have slowed to - I've been busy on a draft of my (IRL) book. But that'll be done this week, so I'll have more time for Thob!

Oh hey, that's big news! Many congratulations

[TheFlame52]

That's great! I don't expect updates, but I do appreciate them when they come. I hope we see an end to Thob's story.

[Loam]

I don't expect updates, but I do appreciate them when they come. I hope we see an end to Thob's story.

That's good to know - I just like to be reliable! And I have no intention of leaving Thob hanging, he deserves a conclusion.

Oh hey, that's big news! Many congratulations

Thanks! It's still only a draft, but at least it's complete.

what's your book about?

Unsurprisingly, it's a fantasy novel Don't want to give specific details yet, but it draws a lot from Finnish culture/mythology (I think - I'm not Finnish).
It's more serious than Thob, of course. Speaking of which...


The next day the party scouted around the hamlets outside Handygrown. One of these, Knitimage, was one of the oldest settlements in the Prestigious Nation, according to Alisa.

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As they neared the village Thob’s nose picked up death on the wind. Figures moved in the near distance. The dwarf readied a hand on his pick.

The village was abandoned, but fresh sandal tracks in the snow attested to recent movement:

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No zombies lurched at them from the collapsing houses, though — the place seemed quiet.

The weather had cleared a bit when they reached the mead-hall. Thob was relieved to find it populous and apparently peaceful within:

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There were a few elves and two goblins; the rest were humans, tall and fair-skinned like Alisa, and by their manner they all looked to Thob like persons of importance.
   As they entered, an aged-looking human offered his greetings: “Welcome to my hall, visitors!” He was a fat man with a long, neatly-combed white beard, dressed in robes of coarse gray fur. “Head chef!” he cried, beckoning another human, “prepare a feast for our guests!”
   The “head chef” moved lackadaisically into the back room, while the party came forward to greet their host. “I’m Thob ‘The Mysterious,’ undead hunter, monster slayer, treasure seeker, writer… oh yes, and miner. And you are…?”
   “Surely you jest!” laughed the old man. “I am the law-giver of the Prestigious Nation!”
   Alisa’s jaw dropped open. “But… there hasn’t been a Prestigious Nation for over five centuries!”
   “There is now, friend!” said the old man. “The Nation lives again, and it will prosper under the rule of King Perom Horseclimax!”

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   “I’m sorry,” said Thob, “run that by me again?”
   “Horseclimax!” ejaculated Perom.
   “And you’re the, uh, ‘king’ hereabouts?”
   “Indeed,” said the law-giver, “Though I was not always so — I rose from humble origins.”
   “Oh really? What did you do?”

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   “It’s been a long time since we’ve had visitors,” Perom continued. “I’m afraid you’ll find our larders a bit bare — we’ve been on austerity measures, due to the war.”
   “A war?” said Alisa. “Against whom? How? Why?”

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   “I didn’t know you cared so much about animals,” said Cañar, impressed.
   “Well, these particular enemies will kill anything that moves,” said Perom, “so there’s not much reason to distinguish, is there? Oh, and besides them, there’s always skirmishes with the goblins.”

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   “You’re fighting over a book?”
   “Among other things. But the book has… sentimental value.”

Most of the mead-hall’s other inhabitants bore various official titles: Thob met a “master of beasts,” a “high treasurer,” and a “royal chamberlain”. None, however, seemed to have any official duties to speak of, except the head chef who brought out a scant meal for the party. The place reminded Thob of Dawngloves, back in his homeland, with all its barons and generals and the king—but no kingdom. If he had been more given to philosophy he might have found this poignant; as he was, it seemed merely absurd.
   Figuring anyone called “head chef” would know where the royal booze was kept, he asked, and received the expected negative answer. The chef did, however, wax poetic about his own favored delicacy:

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   The most interesting of the functionless functionaries was the “chief doctor.” She was adorned with ornaments made, distressingly, of bones, and carried a heavy ceramic slab—it had something written on it, but she held it close to her body so Thob couldn’t make it out.

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The two goblins, an elf bowman, and one human obviously didn’t belong to the law-giver’s entourage, though the human called himself a “leader”. They all looked shifty to Thob. It was therefore little surprise to him when, after they had hob-nobbed with Perom’s people for a while, the so-called leader made a subtle nod to his fellows, laid a hand on his knife, and lunged towards the law-giver. The two goblins drew their weapons, and the elf shot a quick arrow at Cañar that she just narrowly blocked. “Goblin assassins!” she cried. “To arms!”

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She lashed at the bow-elf; Thob squared up against the human leader, jumping between him and the terrified Perom. Alisa fought one goblin, armed with a hammer: the goblin landed a blow that broke Alisa’s fingers, but Strodno rushed to his aid, slicing off the hammer-goblin’s own hand.
   The hand fell to the floor. Perom looked at it. And, suddenly, the hand began to move.

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   “Oops!” said Perom. “Sorry—I didn’t mean to do that!”
   “Ahhh!” cried a nearby dignitary as the severed extremity groped towards him. He kicked at the grasping claw, and it lay still again.
   Meanwhile the hammer-goblin was now dead, and Thob’s pick had just parted the leader's head from his shoulders:

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He was getting quite good at this fighting thing, it seemed. Strodno, Cañar, and Alisa now ganged up on the lone bowman, stabbing, lashing, and bashing, until Strodno cleaved her head apart.
   Everything was quiet for a moment—until Perom let out a little gasp of fright.

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   “What the…?!” shouted Strodno, grasping her weapon.
   “I’m so sorry!” moaned Perom. “It’s just a reflex, I swear!”
   There was no time to argue the point — there were zombies to kill. Thob noticed, though, as he put down the leader for a second time, that some other of the royal officials seemed unperturbed by the risen dead: one, the mysterious doctor, even seemed morbidly affectionate towards them:

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These zombies, fortunately, proved much frailer than the ones Thob had previously encountered: any sufficient force seemed to dispel the dark magic that animated them and returned them to the grave. Soon the hall was quiet again. “Now,” said Thob, “just what is going—!?”
   The bodies began to quiver once more, and then to stand. “It wasn’t me!” Perom wailed.
   These zombies looked different—fiercer, more knowing. The dead elf looked at Thob, and clenched its fist. Pain shot through his body.

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The pain wasn’t crippling, though, and he fought through it. These magical undead were no tougher than their normal counterparts: one good swing, even a solid kick, and they collapsed lifeless:

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The erstwhile goblin assassins fell, for the third and (Thob hoped) final time. The hall was a mess:

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“Now,” Thob said, pointing with his pick at the cowering law-giver, “I think you’ve got some explaining to do.”

[TheFlame52]

That's very nice art!

[King Zultan]

   “There is now, friend!” said the old man. “The Nation lives again, and it will prosper under the rule of King Perom Horseclimax!”
   “I’m sorry,” said Thob, “run that by me again?”
   “Horseclimax!” ejaculated Perom.

I see what you did there, it's also appropriate that he was a gelder before taking his new position.