Normally he was sneaky, always walking silently. Today there was no time for that, he was running quickly through the narrow streets of lower Zharr-Naggrund. Despite being in a hurry, he had remembered to clean his dagger. Otherwise the blood would quickly soak his sash, and the curved blade would not be secret then. Always keep some secret daggers �?" and dice!
The large tower city of the Dawi Zharr was always loud, filled with sounds of slaves in pain, hammers at work, a symphony of infernal industry. But this evening the noise was different, the sound of battle �?" screams of agony, pain and death. He had done his job well, as had all his fellow gits on this treacherous night. It was now just at matter of time before the last of the big dark skinned orcs would be slaughtered. The rewards in sight made the betrayal well worth it �?" they had all agreed.
Three gits had they been, three gits tasked with murdering a particularly large black orc slave boss. One git had never made it, he had chosen to run and hide in shadows, more likely he was a bloody red pulp on a black obsidian wall. That’s the fate of the coward �?" not running fast and far enough.
Two gits remained. They had murdered together before, they knew the dance. Many a dice game had been settled with many a hidden dagger and they would split the winnings �?" almost equally. From the shadows they fell on the back of the big dark greenskin leader. Stabbing, slashing, slicing. Knees, armpit, groin, ribs. Soon the angry brute was spilling his black blood and stinking guts �?" getting weaker, getting taken by death.
Their job had been done, and very well indeed. Their little part in a much larger treason �?" their part in becoming the highest ranking greenskins of the Darklands. The Masters would be content, a position as overseer would be achievable. But there could be only one. A friendship ended by pointy daggers, a single git remained.
Running quickly through polluted lower Zharr-Naggrund, running towards the prize and safety of his Master. The git had always been sneaking, skulking, stalking �?" no git should ever change…
The cut came quickly and the blade was sharp and hard, his achilles tendons soft and naked. The git fell hard �?" face first on the soot coated pavement.
A git had hid, avoided both battle and avoided becoming a bloody red pulp. A git had hid and made a plan. The dagger hit like a red hot punch between his shoulder blades, his breath was forced from his lungs as they collapsed. There could be only one indeed, and it wasn’t him, he realized, as his warm blood washed over the dirty ground.
For such is the nature of the hobgoblins �?" there will always be a sneaker git and most daggers fit perfectly into the back of a traitor.
Scribe’s Contest II, with the theme “hobgoblins”-