He was old and tired, his hands and arms twitched from an old head injury and years of strong drink.
Once he had been a fine warrior riding on a wolf and harassing foes with his bow, but soon he would be useless and probably offered to Hashut.
It was a sunny if chilly morning when the Master eyed him with a malicious glint in his eyes and spoke, “Can’t you stop waving your arms around like that?”
“Sorry Master, I�?� I can’t”, he stammered.
“We will sow the fields soon, but this year there seems to be an abundance of crows. They will steal the seeds if we can’t do a thing about it.”
“Mm�?�Master?” the old hobgoblin said.
“Let`s put those offensive twitches to some good use”, the Master said.
From that day the old hobgoblin stood on the field with his arms twitching about �?" and he did so until he fell dead between the green wheat shoots greeting the sun.
