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Goblin Troubles

“Swords, please,” the goblin snarls, thrusting a rusty metal bucket directly into my stomach. He bristles irritably, flexing every muscle in his scrawny arms. He doesn’t even come up to my chest: I could snap his wiry neck with one hand. I could do without the attitude, so in response I clatter both weapons as hard as I can into bucket. Just as he starts drawing away, I toss in a boot knife, then the punch dagger strapped to my waist.

Fucking goblins.

He doesn’t say anything when I easily shove past him. I’m here to represent the Red Hand cartel; if these goblin shit want to be assholes, they chose the wrong fucker to be an asshole to. Even without my weapons, the two pricks in this hall wouldn’t be able to stop me. The other goblin, dressed more respectably in a scratchy brown suit, nods at me before casually opening a cushioned door. Thumping music swells from the open doorway. My eyes are drawn up to the chickenscratch writing scrawled across the mantle: “Gortan’s Club”. I brush past the goblin without bothering to acknowledge him, my Red Hand cape fluttering behind me.

It’s loud. Awful goblin music- all bass and brass and heavy tempos. I can’t tell exactly where the band is, because Gortan’s is a maze of booths and arcane lights. The ceilings are surprisingly high, the walls spackled with a random assortment of gas lamps and mirrors. Even the booths, little half-walled things decorated with plush leather coaches, are built at different heights. Most are sunken haphazardly into the floor, but a handful perch on tall, rickety wood foundations. The tables closest to me are occupied by hooting packs of goblins, all of whom look fearlessly up at me as I walk by. Their sneering green faces alternate between deep shadows and glaring lights, illuminated fitfully by the arcing and colorful lamps of the club.

It’s short, it’s dirty, it’s undeniably a goblin club. I watch as a pair of leather-armored thugs lounging in a nearby booth point at me and start cackling to each other. They cheers each other violently, and both take eager swigs of whatever swill fills those grubby clay cups.

Fucking goblins.

I’m so taken in by the noise and disorienting labyrinth of walls and mirrors that I don’t even see her until she appears out of a shadow, just a few yards away. She’s completely out of place, here in this boisterous dump. For one thing, she’s barely clothed, wearing nothing but an incredibly short plaid skirt and an equally skimpy black top. Her lithe, muscular body has been painted with some kind of shimmery glitter, and I can’t decide whether to focus on her sweeping legs or the muscular lines on her abdomen or her almost nonexistent cleavage. Wide hoop hearings catch the flashing lights, dangling from undeniably elven ears. She stalks her way towards me on a pair of silver stiletto heels that must be five or six inches tall. The elf sees me staring, and gives me an outrageously flirtatious wink as she passes by. I swear I can feel the wind from those mascara-drenched eyelashes.

I can count the number of times I’ve seen an elf, in the flesh, on one hand. They’re always the same: aloof, noble, conventional. Emphatically not slutty. Her presence here is completely inexplicable. She saunters past, thin hips bouncing in time to the music, outstretched arm easily supporting an overcrowded tray of goblin drinks that must weigh close to twenty pounds. I track her slender body as she sashays away, walking gracefully across the club’s filthy floor. A goblin, suicidally brave on pints of gin, reaches out of his booth to slap her almost naked ass with his rough green hand.

In a normal world, the goblin would have his arm cut off at the elbow before his next heartbeat. His friends would probably die next. I might even be in danger, just because I saw her humiliated.

Instead, the waitress simply stops, places one hand on a cocked hip, and blows the slapper a coquettish kiss. The goblin falls back into the booth, the raucous laughter of his friends clear even over the din of the rest of Gortan’s club. I stare at her until she vanishes somewhere into the maze of booths.

“You Richard Thornton? Red Hand cartel?”

The heavily accented voice comes from somewhere near my chest. I peer down into the beady eyes of a leering goblin. Of course I’m fucking Richard Thornton, from the Red Hand. What other human would find himself stuck visiting this filthy pit. I debate saying this to the little prick, but decide instead to try to convey my words with a glare and a gesture to the emblem sewn into my cloak. He beckons me with a crooked finger, then leads me to the base of a flight of stairs in the center of the room- the tallest of the raised booths. I’ve been sent by the Red Hand to meet with Gortan, the owner of this club, so this must be his personal booth. I start climbing, ignoring the little goblin trying to guide me up. He frowns, then disappears behind me, muttering.

My feet warp the shoddy boards. There are no bannisters. denizli escort It’s not a far climb at all, but on the way up I can make out most of the rest of the club, between the haze of lights and cigarette smoke. More importantly, now that I’m looking for them amongst the heaving hordes of drunk goblins, I can see more elves.

A large booth, not far from us, is totally empty except for an older goblin wearing a rumpled business suit. He’s flanked on both sides by a pair of gorgeous elves, again dressed in absolutely whorish outfits. A blonde and a redhead, both dressed in skimpy red lingerie which barely covers any of their sylphlike bodies. Even sitting down, the goblin barely comes up to their shoulders- he grins and raises his glass when he sees me staring, then sets his drink down and grabs both of his partners’ stockinged thighs. One of the elves looks at me, her thick silver choker sparkling in the club’s lights, eyes glossy but curious. She throws her head back and laughs at an unheard joke from the goblin, before disappearing as the lights dance around the rest of the club.

Further away, at the center stage, an elf is dancing in perfect rhythm with the thumping music. She’s wearing an animal-print leotard which covers her from wrists to hips, cut high at the collar to hide her meagre cleavage. Her chestnut hair shimmers in the wobbling lights, and the way she sways her body to the beat is hypnotizing. She runs her hands over her slender curves, scraping ruby-red nails all the way down to her knees. I literally stop walking up the stairs, totally engrossed in her performance as she stalks from one side of the stage to the other. A horde of drunk goblins wave at her from an adjacent booth, tossing fistfuls of grubby paper money in her direction. The elf swivels, impossibly graceful, and treads purposefully towards them. I swear I can hear the sound of her thigh-high boots clacking on the stage as she approaches them heel-toe, heel-toe. She gives them a private show, swaying her gorgeous body within a fingers’ distance from a lucky goblin. The mob begins stuffing money into her outfit as soon as she’s close enough, though a handful take a moment or two to run their grubby hands over whatever part of her they can. The elf sinks to all fours and traces one of the party’s lips with one slender finger.

She grabs one of the goblins by his shirt and pulls him effortlessly onto the stage, kissing him directly on the lips. A trail of candy-pink lipstick appears over his ugly, starstruck face, and she traces a sensual line of kisses down his stubby green neck. After she deposits the stunned goblin back into his booth, she pirouettes gracefully, shaking her ass at the reveling mob as she returns to the middle of the stage.

If they’re trying to off-balance me, it’s working. I’ve never even seen human whores act like this, and the Red Hand owns some of the filthiest brothels in the city. Watching elves debase themselves like this is literally unbelievable. I pause to collect myself, and summit the top of the stairs.

Gortan is waiting for me, alone, on a cracked leather couch. He’s basically exactly like I imagined. Middle-aged, salt-and-pepper beard, dark hair slicked back in that ridiculous, grimy goblin style. His silk shirt strains over his paunch, and is buttoned open to reveal a tangle of amulets and chains. One of them gleams, a strange and evil red, oddly visible against the rest of the jewelry on his chest. He’s casually holding a clove cigarette in one hand and a mug of gin in the other.

“Enjoying yourself?”

Up here, the music isn’t quite so overwhelming, so his barely accented voice is easy enough to hear. I incline my chin, and remain standing. The goblin boss waves irritably, motioning for me to sit.

“No need for the rudeness, Richard Thornton. Dick Thornton, Red Hand representative. Do you mind if I call you Dick?”

That chain glistens in the half-lighting, I stare at it, before realizing that I should speak. No, he can’t fucking call me ‘Dick’. He interrupts me just as I open my mouth.

“Not often we get a full Red Hand gangster down here. You lot mostly stick to the city. Not a heavy presence out here, in the wilderness. I’m truly looking forward to getting to know you better.”

I’d hardly say that we’re in the wilderness. Sure, Gortan’s club is a lot further out from the city than our usual activities. But, if nothing else, the Red Hand prides itself on being knowledgeable. I try to speak, feel the dryness of my throat. He smirks when I do, my voice coming out surprisingly squeaky.

“Yes, Gortan,” I pause, and clear my throat. “Red Robert sends his regards. Though I’m not surprised he didn’t want to visit this dingy pit himself.” The insult was supposed to be biting, but it just comes out flat. Gods. When did it get so hot in here? My ears are ringing from the vile goblin music. From this high vantage point, I watch the lights slash in diyarbakır escort colorful ribbons across the rest of the club. It’s much bigger than it first appears.

“I heard humans aren’t too much into the small talk. No problem. We can be accommodating, especially with a Red Hand. So what’ll it be?” The goblin boss tilts his head, sending his jewelry cascading across his chest. “Drugs? Weapons? Whores?” At that, he snaps his fingers. Some rehearsed gesture, certainly, because the elves arrive only a few seconds later, carrying drinks.

They’re gorgeous. My eyes track away from Gortan’s amulets just in time to meet the eyes of the one in front, the one carrying the glassware. She’s almost impossibly beautiful. Raven hair, framing a picture-perfect face which has been caked with heavy eye makeup. Bright eyes, staring flatly out from dark eyeliner and shimmering ochre eyeshadow. Her lips are a dark, dark crimson. I let my gaze travel further down her body, past her black tube top, past her pierced navel, past the tight pink skirt that ends far above the tops of her sheer black stockings. Her black heels put her at a few inches taller than even me, so she looms over the goblin boss, as slender as he is rotund. After reaching us, she drops my drink smoothly on the table in front of me before giving Gortan yet another mug of disgusting goblin gin. She sinks into the sofa beside him, kicking up both legs girlishly as she collapses into the leather. The elf wraps her slender arms around his neck, grinning.

Her partner is no less stunning. She carries herself less confidently, but is equally as elegant and graceful. Astonishingly, she’s wearing the tiara and white robes of an elf priestess. Her outfit has been tightened significantly, to emphasize her willowy frame, and slit provocatively from thigh all the way up to her waist. She doesn’t appear to be wearing any underwear. Her eyes and fingernails have both been painted a lustrous purple- even her toenails, visible through peep-toed red heels, are the same color. When she looks at me, she doesn’t have the same smoldering gaze as the other elf. If anything, she looks… concerned.

The second elf sits down neatly beside me, poised and alert. I try not to stare at her long legs, and try not to think about how close my hand is to her ass. I glance over at Gortan, gawking openly at the black-haired elf at his side. Fuck, she’s gorgeous. Too beautiful for these measly goblins, that’s for sure.

“Like I said,” he says, smirking. “Whores? How do you feel about this one next to me? Fucking gorgeous slut, Brandy is, I must say. She loves it when I stretch her out, especially in front of guests. Moans louder than any of these other sluts, when you start really fucking. Bet you’d like to try that, right Dick? A proper fucking?”

Once again, my voice catches in my throat. It comes out as a squeak. There’s mirth in his fiery eyes, and a dull gloss of malevolence that matches the red chain on his chest. Brandy begins idly tracing Gortan’s chest with one slim hand. She looks at me, never shifting from that same, absurdly sultry grin.

Fuck the ridiculous music, fuck the heat, fuck the impossible elf whores. I’m not about to let these goblin fucks get to me. No matter what, I’m a Red Hand gangster. These uppity little shits need to be put in their place; in case they get any ideas about challenging some actual big city cartels.

“I prefer my girls to have bigger tits,” I say, pulling as much swagger into my voice as possible. It’s not a lie- the elf next to me is unbelievably gorgeous, sure, but she’s flat as a board. “And Gortan, the Red Hand isn’t about to buy any weapons from you. This is a first meeting, I’m just here to feel you out. Get an idea if you’re a threat or a friend or a nuisance. You really don’t want to get on my bad side. Our bad side.” I shift my shoulders subtly, trying to emphasize my bulk.

He guffaws, eyes glittering. Brandy echoes his laugh, then fetches the mug of goblin gin and passes it deftly to him. Gortan stubs out his cigarette and raises his hand.

“I know, I know. We’re just little goblins, right? Nothing to take too seriously?”

“Exactly,” I say, interrupting. He frowns, for just a heartbeat. Then those ridiculous flashing lights catch his face, and he regains that unnerving predator’s grin.

“Well, Dick, I hope you enjoy this ‘first meeting’. Hopefully you’ll be able to ‘feel me out’. Maybe when Red Robert asks about our precocious goblin gang, you’ll have a different perspective than you expected.”

With that, he holds up a hand and points over at the stage. “Shh, Dick. Shh. The show is starting.”

My blood boils at the way this ugly little shit talking to me, but before I can retort the atmosphere begins to shift. The arcane lights of the club either shimmer out of existence or refocus on the stage, until the darkness surrounding us is lit only by the shine of goblin eyes antalya escort and little constellations of cigarettes. The music slowly peters off, drums and the trumpets drifting away, and only the idiot baying of drunk goblins fills the club. The gorgeous elf dancer in the leotard has vanished, and has been replaced by a strutting bare-chested goblin, dressed in a ridiculous wooden crown and a bearskin loincloth. I had more muscles when I was twelve, for Gods’ sake. He holds his arms high, grinning, to thunderous applause and hooting.

An elf, the first male elf I’ve seen all night, stumbles falteringly onto the stage. He’s dressed in aristocratic finery, wearing a smooth green tunic and loose white trousers. The crown he’s wearing is smaller than the goblins’, a tin circlet barely as thick as my finger. His arrival spurs a chorus of boos and jeers from the goblin, and he’s hit by at least three cigarette stubs as he shuffles slowly to the center of the stage.

The goblin on stage lowers his hands, staring up at the defeated elf. He makes a dismissive gesture, and the elf noble sinks to one knee, head bowed. With that, the goblin spins, addressing the rest of the room.

“Gentlemen!” The noise from the goblins is deafening. “Whores!” Less noise this time, just a few scattered responses from around the room. Brandy, the elf by Gortan’s side, throws her arms up and cheers brightly. My own elf says nothing, and shifts uncomfortably in her seat. “We have today an honored guest. Baron Ulithel himself, an elf of great renown and honor, has come to pay us lowly goblins a visit. Tell me Baron, what can our meagre troupe do for you? What can I, Roktar, your humble servant, help you with today?”

His voice drips with sarcasm, and carries clearly over the din. The goblin turns away from the crowd and holds his arms out to the elf, who is still kneeling in the center of the stage. Roktar’s eyes glimmer, evilly.

“Roktar,” the elf speaks, his voice quaking. “I have a confession. I must admit, this is not easy to say- “

“Speak up, Baron!” Roktar interrupts, overacting and cupping a hand over his ear. “What is it you’re trying to say to these poor goblins? They can’t hear you if you mutter so quietly!”

Baron Ulithel hangs his head in shame, speaking low and flat. “Like all elves, I think that goblin men are just so much more masculine than elf men. I think that compared to you, we elf men are little more than servants, and I personally want nothing more than to serve you, and please you, any way that I can.”

My jaw drops.

“Please, Roktar,” the frayed Baron continues. “Please, let me suck your goblin cock. It’s so big, and tempting, and I want to do nothing more than pleasure you, and all the other goblins here.”

There’s a girlish moan from across the booth, presumably from Brandy. I feel a delicate hand touch my thigh, gently, the barest caress. I shift my leg away from the elf beside me, startled. On stage, Roktar feigns surprise, clutching his huge wooden crown with both hands.

“Why, Baron Ulithel! I had no idea! I thought you elves were noble creatures, who lived by codes of honor. You would speak so lewdly to us poor, meagre goblins? Do you… really want to suck a cock that badly?”

The elf on stage nods his head, voice quivering with shame. “I do.”

“Well then,” Roktar claps his hands together so hard his crown tilts on his head. “Let’s get the Baron ready, boys! Take him away and get him changed into something more acceptable!”

With that, a swarm of burly goblin take to the stage and drag the humiliated Baron away, into the dim depths of the rest of the club. “Please, gentlemen! While we wait for the Baron to prepare, welcome Lexie to the stage!”

The brassy music returns with a roar, and an elf emerges from the shadows, dressed in a bright pink feather boa, bright pink lingerie, and very little else. All of the lights focus on her, and her body glitters in the lamplight. Goblins start stamping and shouting, but all I can do is focus on her shining lips, her swaying hips, and the obvious bump in her almost nonexistent underwear.

“So you figured it out, huh.” Gortan, this time. I snap my attention back to him, and notice that Brandy has lowered her hand to the top of his thigh, resting it casually on top of Gortan’s prodigious bulge. She’s breathing hard, and I notice for the first time that her pink miniskirt is tenting with an obvious erection.

“Yeah. They’re all male. Great, ain’t it? You can close your mouth now, Dick. Guess you like what you see.”

He’s just so impossibly casual. My head is spinning. I look at the elf beside me, so close I can read the name written on the chain around her neck. His neck. Aurora. His flowery perfume hits me all at once, and I feel myself reeling, like I’m punch drunk.

The crowd downstairs is earsplitting. Lexie, on stage, is sensually dancing to the beat of a goblin tune I swear is familiar. He’s stripped out of the miniscule bra he was wearing originally, bare chest exposed, and takes exaggerated steps as he glides from one side of the stage to the other. He’s totally surrounded by a ring of goblins who have climbed onto their stage, their heads barely at the height of his midriff, all cheering wildly as they circle closer and closer to the dancing elf.

“Swords, please,” the goblin snarls, thrusting a rusty metal bucket directly into my stomach. He bristles irritably, flexing every muscle in his scrawny arms. He doesn’t even come up to my chest: I could snap his wiry neck with one hand. I could do without the attitude, so in response I clatter both weapons as…

“Swords, please,” the goblin snarls, thrusting a rusty metal bucket directly into my stomach. He bristles irritably, flexing every muscle in his scrawny arms. He doesn’t even come up to my chest: I could snap his wiry neck with one hand. I could do without the attitude, so in response I clatter both weapons as…