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A song of Goblins and also Goblins, Book I: The Subtitlening

“Start from the beginning.” Had’zrad leaned back in his chair, his fingers pressed together in exactly the way one does when trying to seem interested in a religious ceremony when they’re really thinking about their new girlfriend.

“We…. were part of the exploration guild. It was our first expedition into the sewers under Altairis. We had no Idea what we were getting into, we swear.” Phalthuun was shaking, buried beneath a blanket roughly the consistency of the average mammoth hide, only it probably smelled a lot better. Phalthuun, however, cared not for how the blanket smelled, for the presence of the armed guards beside him who had arrested him for climbing nearly naked out of a manhole hours earlier brought him a degree of comfort unbeknownst to the average Imperium rabble. Phalthuun was lucky to be alive.

“You’re lucky to be alive,” decreed Had’zrad, who began to scribble some notes onto a piece of paper that only probably had anything to do with the ravings of the mentally scarred explorer, “I’ve heard the goblins down there are utterly savage monsters. It was probably foolhardy to expect anything could be gained from trying to comprehend them. No sane man seeks to understand madness.”

-Seven weeks earlier-

Oreila was utterly extatic. It had only been three days since her grant ran through and she was able to assemble her first expeditionary team. Despite the warnings and concern of her colleagues, the only thing Oreila could think at the very moment she displaced the manhole cover was what fantastical wonderland of sub-elven cretins she was about to elevate into civilization.

Her guard captain, Phalthuun Adszraadh, was the first to descend the long ladder into the sewers beneath the bustling market district of the city of Altairis. The echoing sound of his confirmation that the main access line seemed clear of hostile parties was the dinner bell for the six others in the crew besides Oreila to begin their descent into the labyrinth of waste tunnels wherein it was understood that a great many goblins dwelt. Of the party, only one, the cartographer, had any sense of where they would be going.

“Four crosslines down is where we found the first excavation.”

The cartographer’s directions were gibberish to Oreila, who was an anthropologist, not a civil engineer. Therefore, it only made sense to trust their guide, and true to his word, after a short walk down a fetid pipe with a flowing cesspit of putrid sewage slowly dribbling along mere inches from their feet on the walkway, they found a hole. The hole itself seemed crudely mined, with a great many jagged edges and with few support beams. The two guardsmen whose names weren’t Phalthuun, and whose ranks weren’t captain were ordered to assist in clearing the great many cave-ins that dotted the snaking tunnel. The path itself ran for what felt like at least a mile until it opened into a sizable cavern which, by conventional geology, probably shouldn’t be possible.
The cavern’s geography was the least notable feature of the area, however, as standing roughly in the middle of the clearing was a small, childlike simian figure.

The most perplexing thing about this creature was that no matter how many times they called to it, it would only momentarily notice them. Immediately afterwards, it woud get distracted by the dripping of water, the presence of some rat or insect, or simply its gaze would gradually drift upwards until it was entranced by the very presence of a ceiling above its head. Every time it would see the explorers again, it would be just as surprised as it was the very first time it saw them. Never in roughly a one-minute period did it approach them, until Oreila brought out the candy bar.

The producing of the small chocolate treat seemed to get the creature’s attention in a new and profound way. Its crooked and hilariously long nose oscillated rapidly as the thing wobbled its way over to Oreila in a childlike manner. It stopped once its nose was only a few inches from the candy bar, which respectively was pierced on the end of a short spear that only seconds before had been carried by one of the guards whose names were not Phalthuun and… you get it.

“Hey little monster! Do you want a sweetie?” Oreila’s voice was such that any elven child would’ve immediately seen through her half-assed attempt at masking her prejudice.

“Dazza fud?” Belched the creature.

“Oh my! You possess the affinity for language! Do you have a name?” Oreila’s suddenly honest curiosity was equaled by those others, who crammed their heads of various sizes and baldnesses beside each other in exactly the way canned sardines might take a selfie. This more facilitated everyone’s discomfort than an actually genuine improvement on their ability to see the creature. Out of raw fear of the unknown, nobody really cared that much.

“Dazza fud? Iz a eet?” Elaborated the creature, growing increasingly curious but still seemingly cautious enough of the elves so as not to do anything too brash.

“Yes, you can eat…” Oreila was cut off by the near instantaneous chomping of the creature onto the chocolate bar exactly a quarter of a picosecond after the word ‘yes’ was pronounced. The force of the creature’s bite significantly deformed the spearhead. The creature didn’t even chew it, simply swallowed it, licked its lips, and then immediately turned to walk away.

Oreila insisted that the party follow the creature as it began travelling along another snaking tunnel that led out of the cavern. All the while the rest of the party was trailing many meters (and maybe a few yards) behind the diminutive goblinoid, Oreila was enthusiastically interrogating it. Over the course of about 20 minutes, she was able to deduce that it was some form of small goblin called a “grem”, its name was “Igglesplunt”, and it thought the candy bar tasted worse than a hat, but better than “soup”, which she came to understand was their word for anything they found in the sewer water.

Around the time the epiphany about the meaning of soup graced Oreila’s mind, they entered another cavern that was aglow with activity. A virtual horde of grems were awork toiling, constructing some form of statue which resembled an elf, but insofar as someone who had only ever heard descriptions of elves could possibly construct an effigy of such a being. The visage of the statue, which was composed of a great many pieces of trash, sections of dirt, what looked to be actual mortar, farming equipment, and a few grems accidentally nailed into place both flattered and appalled the party. It was only shortly after discussing exactly how blasphemous this statue was when the second guard whose name wasn’t Phalthuun (here forward to be referred to as guard #2) noticed that Igglesplunt had disappeared into the mass of gremlins who were constructing the elf statue.

The ramifications of this were that the party began to attempt communicating with the sea of seemingly oblivious grems, whose attention was completely fixated on basically everything but the elven explorers. This annoyed Phalthuun, as never before in his life had anyone or anything dared not to notice how important he looked. Upon expressing this to the cartographer, however, he came to care a bit less because after realigning his concept of the grems to be more or less equivalent to insects, a certain acceptance of their ignorance was achieved.

Around the time the party began getting seriously frustrated with their inability to draw the attention of any of the grems, a new form of creature approached them. It looked like a grem, but was about five feet tall, seemingly skin-and-bones, covered in acne, and had a nose roughly the length and shape of a pistol. Even the least empathetic of all uncivilized beings could comprehend from a mere glance at this creature that its very existence was depressing and it was, in every way, miserable.

“Wow. You’re so pretty. Can I look at you? Is that okay? I’ll gouge my eyes out if it isn’t.” The creature’s voice was a whimper that would overshadow a kicked puppy.

“Oh, well I do suppose you could avert your gaze a bit, but moreover please inform me on what manner of creature you are? You are more articulate than those things I take are called ‘grems’! Are you a goblin? What is your name?”

Oreila’s machine-gun-esque questionnaire momentarily frazzled the creature who, after covering its eyes most completely (though occasionally peeking through its fingers to make sure it wasn’t actually talking to a wall), began to compose itself and provide adequate responses. From this exchange, which lasted around 10 minutes, the party managed to uncover a great many truths about the nature of goblin kind. Firstly, the small, illiterate creatures currently assembling the statue in the present cavern were in fact called ‘gremlins’, the creature they were speaking to was a ‘hobgoblin’ named ‘Seventy-seven-spoons-and-one-rusty-fork’, and there was one other sub race of goblinoids referred to as ‘bugbears’, which seemed to be the leaders. One such bugbear individual, whose name apparently was ‘She-who-mispronounces-the-word-chemistry’, acts as the queen of sorts of this particular goblin tribe. ‘Spoons’, as the shy hobgoblin came to be called, agreed to offer them an audience with the bugbear, who the elves demanded simply be referred to as ‘the one in charge’.

Spoons led them through yet many more tunnels, all comparable in a great many ways to that first crumbling passage which was their proverbial rabbit hole. It became readily apparent that goblin architecture had no real rules, consistency, and for all intents and purposes probably shouldn’t work. Over the course of the hours it took to get to the throne room, the party witnessed a great many instances of such architecture failing miraculously, and in most cases resulting in the deaths of a great many gremlins. What seemed to Oreila to be completely bizarre, however, was the fact that any gremlin who witnessed another’s death (or any form of violence or tragedy for that matter) would break out in utterly hideous and contagious laughter.

Other revelations were that the only reason the gremlins were working on the statue was that it happened to be Tuesday, and that on all other days the gremlins simply mulled about causing mayhem for their own entertainment. Spoons couldn’t explain exactly why the gremlins found violence to be so hilarious, and expressed grief over their senseless deaths in an almost paternal manner. Occasionally, gremlins would approach Spoons, referring to him as ‘Mizta Hob’ and asking him to assist them in a great many simple activities such as buttoning a shirt that clearly didn’t fit them, holding a hammer the right way, and most often of all: wanting to know if it was still Tuesday.

Anyhow, the aforementioned throne room was eventually reached. The exact appearance of the throne room is irrelevant because the presence of the absurdly huge goblin in the center of it atop a structure only vaguely resembling a chair of any kind, much less a throne, was more significant than any of the room’s other qualities. This enormous goblin, who was obviously the leader previously referred to as ‘She-who-did-something-Oreila-didn’t-really-care-about’ grew immediately angrier than she seemed initially, as evidenced by the rapidly increasing pace at which she was flailing hapless gremlins about in an effort to paint the ceiling with their brain matter.

Her voice was like a normal voice except really loud: “God-finder! How day ya find God and friens on a Tuesday! Thas da mose-most not really holy of day!”

“I am most sorry my mistress. Shall I feed my entrails to the gremlins in an effort to make up for my sins?”

“Uh… wuts a end rail? Do I gots wunna doze?”

“It shall be done, my lady.” Said Spoons, rapidly exiting the room in a backwards pace whilst simultaneously bowing and weeping violently.

“Okay, sure, God-finder… have fun witcha end rails.” Once Spoons had finished exiting the room in a most dramatic fashion, the bugbear spoke again, much to the continued bewilderment of Oreila and the others. “Ennyway, hi God. Thanks fer goin outta my dreems. Hope ya got all my letters I rotecha on da seelin so youz and ya frenz could see em.”

A moment of quiet puzzlement and contemplation passed, then Oreila spoke: “Er… I…. might not have gotten all the letters? Can… you show them to me so…. I can be sure?” Oreila was utterly confused and at this point, horrified at the seemingly mad, seven-foot-tall wall of muscle and drool which was immediately in her presence and referring to her as ‘God’. A quick survey of the others confirmed her suspicions that they were similarly terrified. Even Phalthuun, who carried a rifle of exquisite make, gave her a glance which could mean only have one possible interpretation: “I have absolutely no intention of using this stupid fucking pea-shooter. It’d only make her angry.”

“Oh, sure, no prollum, God! Come on, I’ll show ya the letter room!”

The party followed the bugbear in exactly the same way people who aren’t scared of enormous monsters with god complexes don’t. The journey took about two and a half seconds because evidently, the letter room was directly adjacent to the throne room. The room was more or less a room, save for the fact that the ceiling was adorned with a great many carved boards, bits of paper stained with shit, various clothes that might’ve been white at some point (as evidenced by the fact that they’re currently still actually white, if a bit muddy), and all of which were covered in writings and drawings of various degrees of legibility.

A common theme across the texts was the idea that the bugbear was eagerly waiting the arrival of a tiny godlike creature which will usher in a world in which it is Wednesday forever, or possibly Tuesday forever, either is really okay. It must be emphasized exactly how truthfully okay this was: the bugbear seemed to really only care that the decree of which day it will always be will end the incessant questioning by the gremlins of whether or not Tuesday is over yet. Perhaps most disturbing, however, were the various depictions of the goblins, as well as the godlike figure, eating the other figures depicted as similar to the godlike figure, though all were shown to be naked and with embarrassingly small genitalia.

“I was start to wory that you couldn’t see the letters up in Godland, even though I put em on the seelin for ya ta see em better. Cuz yaknow, Godland is up high and all.”

“Oh, yes, excellent. Uh… I need to… talk with my friends. About whether it should be Tuesday or not. Over there. With you not over there… so if you could just go sit in the other room and keep playing with the gremlins we’ll have a good answer in just a minute!”

“Oh, I knew you’d say that. You seddit in muh dreem! Look… uh… yeah rite dere! I drew it fur ya with a pensel that stick-guy found!” The bugbear then pointed at a mural which depicted the god figure saying a bunch of words that don’t make any sense, followed by the goblins tearing the other god-like figures into small pieces, in most instances using forks and occasionally a wheelbarrow. Before the party had any time to react, the bugbear grabbed Oreila with one hand and lifted her off of the ground, cheering, roaring, and demanding that the other goblins: “Come getchur God-friend dinner!”

In the ensuing chaos, the cartographer was summarily divided into at least fourteen pieces over the course of about three hours, as it was understandably difficult to cut an elf apart using only a wheelbarrow. Guard #2 was killed instantly. Everyone else who wasn’t named specifically died a similarly gruesome death. Phalthuun, however, successfully fled the moment the melee began.

With the help of his ‘stupid fucking pea shooter’, he was able to carve a bloody path through the seemingly endless waves of gremlin warriors who, despite their childlike demeanor, were about as effective in combat as actual children. The roars of the bugbear echoing behind him, eclipsed only slightly by the alternatingly horrified and outraged screams of Oreila, Phalthuun wandered a great many tunnels of an increasingly abandoned state, until such a point that he could no longer hear the aforementioned roars and screams. This brought the captain no comfort, however, as his favorite shirt was now ruined, the only other competent colleagues of his on this expedition were either captured to be worshipped as God figures or summarily killed for the purpose of devouring.

That said, he never really liked guard #2, and that very thought kept him sane for the seven weeks it took him to find the nearest man hole cover. During this period, he managed to survive by eating three of his own fingers, his left ear, five bullets, an unknown and possibly unknowable quantity of sewer rats, three gallons of raw sewage (but not particularly stinky sewage), and whatever water he could collect from licking condensation off of the ceiling.

-Present Day-

Following Phalthuun’s vague directions, the rescue squad were able to locate the goblin colony Phalthuun and Oreila had made contact with. Surprisingly, the goblins were nowhere near as hostile as the nearly insane captain had made them out to be. A few minutes of exploring led them to a rather anatomically accurate statue of a very beautiful elven woman around which a great many goblins of one shape and size (simian and small) were bowing and possibly praying. While they were in the process of confirming that last part, a gangly creature approached them, addressed itself as ‘You-won’t-believe-this-but-its-actually-a-whole-outhouse-I-found-in-the-water-just-over-there’ and told them that: “God said you’d come. Unfortunately, she doesn’t not grant audiences on Wednesdays, as Wednesdays are the holiest of days for us goblins.” The squad captain attempted to inform the creature that it was in fact Tuesday, to which it responded: “No it isn’t. It’s never Tuesday. Not anymore,” and walked away sobbing and muttering to itself about how it doesn’t have a birthday any more.

This failed to prevent the rescue squad from continuing to explore the goblin colony, all the while being vigilant of the veritable ocean of small goblin creatures who seemed to be doing absolutely nothing important at all. Eventually, they heard a voice that was far too eloquent and well mannered to belong to a goblin. Following the voice, they came to a chamber wherein an elven woman, presumably Oreila, was wearing only a tattered Yllendyr Imperium flag as a scarf. She was talking to a rather monstrously large creature about how exited she was that tomorrow was Wednesday, which apparently meant she would finally get a day off of work. The large creature seemed to agree completely, and quickly segued into a philosophical debate about whether or not shirts should be considered an endangered species. The elf argued that they should, but that continued conservation efforts might eventually allow them to continue breeding to a point at which their population will become self-sustaining.

Upon returning to the surface, the squad captain rather quickly thanked her men for their heroic efforts in preserving the safety of the Imperium, entered her office momentarily to write a report on the results of the rescue operation, and minutes later, entered her boss’s office with an envelope containing said report. The boss thanked her for the report, and sent her on her way. It took a while for the boss to get to the report which, to his surprise, was simply a single sheet of paper with the words “she’s gone”, written in plain print with black ink.
Squad-6 Member: "Smoog"

Smoog was conscripted into the Imperial Yllendyr Army on his second birthday after his best friend Gligmigpug dared him to climb a man-hole service entrance to see what was on the other side. The two ended up in the middle of a busy road in an Yllendyr city, which naturally caused scene. The two gremlins proceeded to invade a nearby cafe, defecated on multiple tables, and were involved in a competition to see which one of them could drink the most coffee through their noses until they were finally wrangled by the local police, and turned over to the local branch of the army.

The two were eventually separated, and over the course of many weeks, Smoog learned to fight... kindof. His superiors soon discovered his occasional loss of object permanence, and therefore resorted to tying his rifle to his arm in order to keep him from losing it. His other gear was similarly affixed to him, not that he really cared, as he was quite content to serve his new masters to the best of his ability. Naturally, his best wasn't very good, but he eventually qualified for the reserves through sheer luck and commitment.

Smoog learned several things over the course of his training. Firstly, the other soldiers kept using this word, "midget", to refer to him. As much as he tried to explain that his name was pronounced "Smoog", they didn't seem to get it. It wasn't until one of his comrades explained to him that the word meant "best fighter that ever existed", that he truly understood how much his hard work had paid off. From then on, his loyalty to the Imperium surpassed even that of a few of his commanding officers. He was told that, due to his patriotic zeal, he was handpicked to join the 27th auxiliary legion in their occupation of the Kitagawa Shogunate in order to help instill the local population with the appropriate level of admiration for the Imperium. That was the greatest day of Smoog's life.
Nation: The Pipemen (aka "Sewer Goblins")

Flag: A tribe's flag, if they have one, is usually a variation of a shit-covered dirty rag with at least one and a half footprints on it. If a particular tribe is enslaved by a nation, they might care enough about which nation they're enslaved by to hoist that nation's flag on Tuesdays just after lunch time, or whenever they're forced to otherwise.

Type of Government: Kratocracy usually, though some tribes manifest other forms of government due to either enslavement by other species or nations, or occasionally out of the ruling bugbear's drive to be contrarian for no rational reason. A tribe without a bugbear for whatever reason usually becomes a democracy, much to the dismay of every goblin involved. Goblins go insane after roughly one hour of not being enslaved by some form of authority backed by force, and have a tendency to become extremely religious and superstitious until some intelligent voice of reason decides it wants to subjugate them, at which point they fall back in line and regain their previous standard of sanity. This religion and superstition generally manifests as the gremlins suddenly becoming convinced that a particular inanimate object has godlike powers or otherwise controls their minds, and seek to appease it through nonsensical rituals. Hobgoblins usually are slower to fall for this kind of behavior, but pier pressure wins over after a while. Hobgoblins never rule because if there's a bugbear, they get bullied into submission for being nerds, and if there isn't, they're too insecure, unconfident, depressed, or disorganized to actually be leaders of a whole tribe. Hobgoblins are, however, quite often lower taskmasters and project leaders with authority over gremlins, who look up to them because they aren't mean and like to teach them big words to say to impress or annoy their piers.

Economy: The Pipemen, when dealing with other nations, generally accept barter in the form of edible substances (see primary species below), tools, or anything the ruling bugbear thinks is cool. Goblins within their own tribes generally have no use for money and no concept of personal possessions as the spontaneous loss of object permanence common among most gremlins prevent any sort of ownership lasting long. Bugbears and Hobgoblins often have possessions, but since the gremlins are numerous, everywhere, and like to randomly mess with things, particular items have a habit of getting lost rather quickly if not constantly guarded or locked away.

Primary Species: Gremlins, hobgoblins, and bugbears, in decreasing order of prevalence. These species are collectively referred to as "goblinoids", and share many common features, including a biologically pre-programmed drive to form colonies with other goblins and become enslaved by powerful individuals, and an ability to subsist off of any organic matter, so long as they eat a quantity of mass roughly comparable to their fist per day. Due to their short, violent lifespans, goblinoids measure their lifespans in weeks, and their "birth days" are the day of the week they were born on, though this is almost never kept track of and even when it is remembered, it is rarely celebrated. The goblinoid maximum lifespan is unknown, as they seemingly always die violent deaths within a year of their birth. Goblins are never born on Tuesdays, as any goblin born on a Tuesday, upon peeking its head out into the light for the first time, immediately realizes that it isn't the weekend (see culture below), and therefore sees no reason to start working yet. Goblin children reach adulthood the moment nobody is actively paying attention to them, meaning a goblin baby could potentially stay in its infant state forever, if given enough attention. Goblin babies are rarely cute enough to justify doing that.

- Gremlins: Gremlins make up over 90% of the goblin population. They are, on average, about three feet tall, green, simian humanoids with childlike personalities. They get excited easily, and as a species find violence and explosions to be objectively hilarious. Gremlin names are usually between one and seventy three rhyming, nonsensical syllable groups, with an average of about two. Examples: "Smingpling", "Bloomk", "Frimblepimblewumblemumble", "Vulpmubulb". The first thing a gremlin ever says becomes their name, which makes sense, because their names sound like babble.

- Hobgoblins: About one in a hundred goblinoid births result in the birth of a hobgoblin. Hobgoblins look like gremlins, but incredibly skinny, hairier, covered in acne, and are usually about five feet tall. Hobgoblins have an intelligence comparable to humans, but with a propensity for extreme jealousy, depression, and greed. Despite this, hobgoblins are also the most compassionate of the goblinoids, seeing their bugbear overlords as "big brother" figures, and gremlins as rambunctious younger siblings in need of guidance and protection. While hobgoblins have both male and female sexes, they are incapable of reproduction themselves. Hobgoblins are usually named after random, and bizarrely specific objects that may or may not have ever even existed at all. Examples: "Four-and-a-half-foot-long-piece-of-driftwood-with-a-hole-in-it", "Left-shoe", "Lightbulb-that-smells-like-bacon", "That-thing-that-makes-that-sound,-you-know-what-i'm-talking-about". Hobgoblins usually name themselves after reaching adulthood. Gremlins, however, never remember a hobgoblin's name and usually just call them "Mr. hob" or "Ms. hob". Bugbears, being bossy jerks, simply refer to a hobgoblin by whatever they're doing at the time, such as "pipe-fixer-team-leader" or "idea-come-er-up-with-er".

- Bugbears: There is a rare exception to the rule that goblinoids are never born on Tuesdays. About once per year, in each tribe, a hobgoblin will be born on a Tuesday and grow up to be a bugbear. Bugbears are seven to eight foot tall, rippled muscled goblinoids that have arguably less raw intelligence than the average gremlin, but have such charisma that they are able to play it off, and most goblinoids think of them as demigod-like beings with a divine right to rule. Bugbears are competitive, short-tempered, and hate almost everything except for themselves and one other kind of item or idea determined by some never-explored biological law. A bugbear might be obsessed with collecting a certain consistency of sawdust, or think that anything in the shape of a donut is a profoundly beautiful work of art. As such, a bugbear will drive it's tribe to any length to satiate their bizarre compulsions. Like hobgoblins, bugbears have male and female sexes, but cannot reproduce on their own. Bugbear names are titles in the form of "noun-verber" or "he/she-who-verbs", though they rarely have anything to do with anything the bugbear actually did in their lifetime. Examples: "Lugnut-finder", "She-who-blinks-fast-on-wednesdays", "Gremlin-punter", "He-who-likes-the-word-'sausage'-way-too-much".

Culture: Due to their biological imperative to become enslaved by powerful creatures, the Pipemen as a culture are almost always under the thumb of some other nation, monster, or when isolated, simply guided by the whims of the ruling bugbear until something really awesome comes along. When that happens, usually the ruling bugbear bargains with the awesome thing, attempting to trade servitude in exchange for the thing not killing him or her in the near future. When a tribe has more than one bugbear, the one that isn't ruling generally lives in secrecy, planning to overthrow the current ruler. Bugbears are too vain to rule together, as a general rule of thumb. Apart from this, the Pipemen only have one true defining cultural belief: every day is the weekend except for Tuesday. As often as the Pipemen are forced into labors of various sorts, usually consisting of digging sewer tunnels, repairing broken plumbing, or doing jobs that their overlords otherwise consider to be beneath the working class of their respective societies, they don't really enjoy doing so. Goblins are fundamentally lackadaisical, disorganized, and just plain lazy. In the extremely rare circumstance that whatever being is enslaving them actually tries to treat them with respect and compassion, however, gremlins at the very least can become fanatically devoted to their masters. In such a case, their work ethic improves substantially to the point that Thursday morning is no longer considered part of the weekend.

Location: Theoretically everywhere, though virtually always in subterranean colonies. Pipemen tend to just tunnel in random directions out of habit or to make space when a colony grows too large, so they end up in the oddest of places. Even more rarely, a bugbear will become obsessed with exploration, and bully their tribe into tunneling vast distances out of sheer curiosity.

Climate: Cold. Dark. Wet. Stinky.

Military: The Pipemen only go to war when their overlords make them, and generally never actually wage war among themselves (i.e. between tribes), though rivalry and frequent brawls keep morale high. That said, when they do go to war, they do so enthusiastically, as violence is hilarious to them, and death is such a frequent occurrence in goblin culture that they are utterly desensitized to it. Gremlins have no talent for using weapons, but they certainly try. They do, however, have something of a supernatural affinity for causing explosions, and being good tunnelers, make for great saboteurs. Otherwise, they make serviceable cannon fodder and shock troops, with little self-preservation instinct. That said, gremlins are usually horrible at recognizing the difference between who they're fighting for and who they're trying to defeat, and what their actual tactical goal is at any given point and time, so any battle plan that doesn't involve simply ordering the gremlins to mangle anything and everything in a certain area that can be pointed at generally fails horribly.

Magic: Goblins very rarely make use of magic. As most gremlins don't live long enough and aren't really smart enough to make sensible use of any magical talents that they would manifest, only hobgoblins and the rare bugbear really become functional mages. And even then, there exists a serious speedbump on the path to magical mastery in that goblinoids can only be void mages. Most goblin mages don't realize they have powers until they accidentally use them and spontaneously get themselves killed, much to the amusement of the surrounding gremlins at large. Hobgoblins that somehow learn the theory behind magic may become interested in experimenting to see if they in fact have powers, though should their ruling bugbear come to believe they are growing too powerful (or are spending too much time playing with magic to be actually useful), they tend to get executed. Bugbears that manifest powers and survive past the accidental discovery of them AND live long enough to hone their talents become incredibly powerful rulers, and sometimes even betray the being(s) they've become enslaved by. That said, such a bugbear usually develops a nasty case of being even more insane than usual and tends to die miraculously at the hands of their enslaver due to their coup attempt being poorly thought out.

History: The Pipemen usually don't keep track of history past the lifetime of the current ruling bugbear. They often have enough knowledge of time passing to know when tuesday is or was, but thats about it. No currently existing Pipemen tribe has existed long enough to remember the age of myth, adventure, and fantasy, and few living goblins were around when they were first enslaved by whatever power currently has them under their thumb. That said, through sheer accidental oral tradition, some goblins beneath cities have a concept of the fact that they, as a species, weren't always servile to powers that used them as a labor force. The idea that they are seen, in whatever small way, as actually useful by their overlord civilizations, brings goblins a sense of pride. Further, the transition from simply worshiping dragons and liches and disembodied glowing effigies of dark gods atop tall towers to being integrated as a labor class into another parent society is understood by the few goblins (usually hobgoblins) that reflect upon it to be something of a cultural renaissance for goblinkind.

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