– And I say their, that is to our Chief – that bastard is a traitor for sure! And the Chief cut off his head with an axe! And then he bowed at my feet, he says – now you are my adviser. But I’m a modest goblin, I refused, the clan is more important. The son is getting married…
Dearg, nicknamed the Iron Axe, was on a roll. The clan was celebrating the return of the delegation from the Council, and the goblin, having already emptied the second barrel of special mushroom beer, climbed onto the table and from there broadcasted about his heroic deeds. In the end, he put his own shield under his head with a horned skull tied to it, hugged his trusty axe and snored.
About the marriage of his son, Dearg did not lie. On the appointed day in the valley between the hills, a modest feast was set up for a couple of hundred of the closest relatives, kegs of beer were rolled out, and a dozen juicy lambs were slaughtered. Truly, the brand of the neighboring clan was clearly visible on the lambs, but this did not bother anyone. When half of the barrels were empty, and half of the lambs were left with only skulls (which the young had collected to attach to their shields), the bride and groom were brought to the impromptu altar. The altar, in the best goblin traditions, was assembled from rotten boards, pieces of rope and, it seems, someone’s kilt. The rat skull in the upper part was supposed to symbolize … and what exactly, no one remembered.
– Do you swear to each other in … hic … well, you understand … – The head of the clan held the wedding, and as the chief he relied on the first keg of beer. Therefore, he stood on his feet very unsteadily.
– Briarg, son of Dearg, are you ready to take your oath?
The embarrassed and almost sober groom looked languidly at the bride, for the hundredth time admired the delicate green of her skin and coquettishly filed fangs, and only opened his mouth to utter an oath, when he was interrupted by his father’s cry.
– So that my son would take an oath to some McTodds !!! They decided to defame my little native blood, carrion !!! – The Iron Axe was drunk to the board and did not quite understand what was happening around. He understood only one thing for sure – while he was alive, none of his offspring would bow to anyone. The fist of the dispersed Dearg made a wide arc and flew into the jaw of his neighbor on the table. The neighbor turned out, firstly, from the bride’s clan, and secondly, no more sober than a fighter.
– FIGHT! – The head of the clan forgot about his duties as a crowner, perched on an empty keg and conducted a spear. – Who … hic … loses, from that the house to the newlyweds!
In principle, drunk goblins did not need any motivation for a sincere fight. They already famously beat each other up (only with their fists, because the clan is sacred thing), pulled at the fangs and managed to catch up with the booze. The noise from what was happening was unimaginable. It would seem that there is nowhere to be louder, but suddenly a rasping voice cut through the cacophony:
– My mother … – The Iron Axe instantly sobered up and wilted.
– Yeah, pie, yours, yours. – A woman armed with a rolling pin cut through the crowd of those fighting. Along the way, she famously gave cracks to the right and left, the fight behind her instantly subsided. Having reached Dearg, the woman grabbed his left ear and pulled painfully. – So you called some second cousins and forgot about your mother, right? – The ashamed goblin sniffed, and his relatives quietly arranged tables and benches, straightened kilts and strenuously pretended that everything was decent.
However, a new fight broke out a couple of hours later, and Dearg the Iron Axe’s mother took an active part in it.
Over the hills, in a stone castle, an ogre looked out the window. Hearing the painfully familiar goblin screams, he sighed heavily and went to herd the cattle into the courtyard and barricade the gates. If, at the height of the holiday, these green locusts decide to cross in his direction, then it is better to play it safe. At such moments, the ogre secretly dreamed of a war with Styx. Maybe at least it will reduce the number of small screamers.
smith (verified owner) –
Argh, a Scottish McGoblin! What’s not to love? Highlander!