years and snows and bolts of lightning ago, it had been a thriving tree, covered in green leaves and waving gently in the brisk breezes. Now, it was an ugly, cadaverous claw, stretching toward the clouds, seeking salvation. It had been there, quite possibly, for centuries, as much a permanent feature of the landscape as the Brimstone Mountains to the south and east. Hrark had, in fact, chosen this very spot deliberately. The dead thing made it easier to spot the camp; many kobolds, accustomed to finding their way in the blackness under the earth, found life on the surface disorienting.
Gork had never had that problem, but he
was
somewhat dismayed to see the five large horses tied loosely to the decrepit trunk. Kobolds did not ride horses; simple geometry made it uncomfortable at best, often flat-out impossible. Ergo, the visitors, whoever they were, were not kobolds.
Gork dropped into a low crouch and crept, ever so slowly, around the encampment. Here he slid behind the tiniest of shrubs; there he vanished into a random pool of shadow. Carpets of dead vegetation and a ground liberally strewn with twigs might as well have been the plushest of carpets for all the sound he made. Finally near enough to hear what was happening in the center of the camp, Gork settled down behind a convenient hedge and watched. His fingers idly brushed the hilt of his
kah-rahahk
dagger: a hideous weapon, jagged and barbed across the flat as well as along the edge.
Hrark, patriarch of the clan and all-around bastard, was currently facing off with five of Morthûl’s human mercenaries. His skin was touched with a subtle tint of blue, and it somehow made him appear harder than the other kobolds. The humans towered over the diminutive creature, looming dangerously in their midnight-hued leathers. The man in the center, a white-haired veteran with a long, lightning-shaped scar across his left arm, had the bearings of a leader—but he appeared to be present, at the moment, purely for moral support. The human doing the speaking (or shouting, as the case may have been), and the one to whom Gork’s eyes and ears were instantly drawn, was a much younger man. A man with a bad disposition that might have been due, in part, to the finger with which he’d so recently parted company.
“…rightfully mine!” Gork heard him screaming as he finally focused in on the conversation. “The little bastard took it, and I want it the hell back! You get me, you little son-of-a-bitch?”
Hrark peered up, squinting over the end of his snout. “First off, you towering turd, there’s no need to scream at me. I can hear better’n you, with those stupid, tiny little rectum-looking things you call ‘ears.’” The patriarch’s own ears—large, triangular affairs that appeared vaguely canine—perked up at that, as though assisting him in making his point. “Second, I’d really prefer to hear his side of the story before I make any final decisions. I don’t think that’s unreasonable, do you?”
“I don’t give a damn about reasonable!” the human shouted, having lowered his voice not one whit. Angrily, he thrust his bandage-wrapped hand in the kobold’s face. “You see this? I lost a finger to that little shit! Reasonable be hanged, I want him!” His other hand lashed out, shoving the kobold back a few steps. “Are we clear?”
Hrark’s face went cold, and the surrounding kobolds stiffened. The patriarch took a single step back toward the human, his jaws clenched. “You did
not
just push me.”
It was at that point that the older veteran began to get the hint that, just maybe, they had overstepped their margin of safety. “Hey,” he said, placing one hand gently on the younger man’s shoulder. “Maybe we should—”
“Get off me!” Completely ignoring his commanding officer, the nine-fingered soldier advanced on Hrark. “I’ll push you any time I feel like it, you—”
Two things happened then, damn near simultaneously. First, Gork
Gork had never had that problem, but he
was
somewhat dismayed to see the five large horses tied loosely to the decrepit trunk. Kobolds did not ride horses; simple geometry made it uncomfortable at best, often flat-out impossible. Ergo, the visitors, whoever they were, were not kobolds.
Gork dropped into a low crouch and crept, ever so slowly, around the encampment. Here he slid behind the tiniest of shrubs; there he vanished into a random pool of shadow. Carpets of dead vegetation and a ground liberally strewn with twigs might as well have been the plushest of carpets for all the sound he made. Finally near enough to hear what was happening in the center of the camp, Gork settled down behind a convenient hedge and watched. His fingers idly brushed the hilt of his
kah-rahahk
dagger: a hideous weapon, jagged and barbed across the flat as well as along the edge.
Hrark, patriarch of the clan and all-around bastard, was currently facing off with five of Morthûl’s human mercenaries. His skin was touched with a subtle tint of blue, and it somehow made him appear harder than the other kobolds. The humans towered over the diminutive creature, looming dangerously in their midnight-hued leathers. The man in the center, a white-haired veteran with a long, lightning-shaped scar across his left arm, had the bearings of a leader—but he appeared to be present, at the moment, purely for moral support. The human doing the speaking (or shouting, as the case may have been), and the one to whom Gork’s eyes and ears were instantly drawn, was a much younger man. A man with a bad disposition that might have been due, in part, to the finger with which he’d so recently parted company.
“…rightfully mine!” Gork heard him screaming as he finally focused in on the conversation. “The little bastard took it, and I want it the hell back! You get me, you little son-of-a-bitch?”
Hrark peered up, squinting over the end of his snout. “First off, you towering turd, there’s no need to scream at me. I can hear better’n you, with those stupid, tiny little rectum-looking things you call ‘ears.’” The patriarch’s own ears—large, triangular affairs that appeared vaguely canine—perked up at that, as though assisting him in making his point. “Second, I’d really prefer to hear his side of the story before I make any final decisions. I don’t think that’s unreasonable, do you?”
“I don’t give a damn about reasonable!” the human shouted, having lowered his voice not one whit. Angrily, he thrust his bandage-wrapped hand in the kobold’s face. “You see this? I lost a finger to that little shit! Reasonable be hanged, I want him!” His other hand lashed out, shoving the kobold back a few steps. “Are we clear?”
Hrark’s face went cold, and the surrounding kobolds stiffened. The patriarch took a single step back toward the human, his jaws clenched. “You did
not
just push me.”
It was at that point that the older veteran began to get the hint that, just maybe, they had overstepped their margin of safety. “Hey,” he said, placing one hand gently on the younger man’s shoulder. “Maybe we should—”
“Get off me!” Completely ignoring his commanding officer, the nine-fingered soldier advanced on Hrark. “I’ll push you any time I feel like it, you—”
Two things happened then, damn near simultaneously. First, Gork
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