Wuvvy demanded satisfaction from three goblins in a trenchcoat.
(Ao3 link)
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Taking Brennan’s “Hob was almost three smaller goblins, actually” and going through with it.
Thanks to @grimalkinsquill’s for enabling this idea! :D
Hob would admit when he committed a failure in judgment—it happens so often, we’re as used to it as the gunk in our ears. And as the fawn he had previously filed as a threat due to the swiftness with which she can move around—always running, always busy, all around in the Bloom, we needed to have a way to know when she was approaching—he clenched a fist, dragging his other claw down his face as yet another misjudgment bouldered his base.
He closed his tent, and the seven feet tall of this quite frightening vision of a furry beast that made Knickolas Pnackeless Hob shuddered. And it crumbled under his coat, medals symbolizing his many achievements to the Goblin court clinked in each other as the cloth was thrown to the ground.
From under it, three smaller figures emerged. All in different states of distress. One ran to the planning desk and began to smack his thick skull against one of the wooden legs, muttering, “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” at each thud.
Other kept close to the discarded shirt, covering themselves on it like a blanket as his widened eyes glanced from his two companions.
Another, the seemingly more kept together one, was pacing back and forth in between their companions, scratching behind an ear as his nose twitched, brows lowered in a deep frown.
“Cut it out, Knick!” he snarled to the goblin smacking his head against the wood. “Denting your thick skull won’t help us.” He knocked his own head for emphasis. “We gotta think.”
“Yeah!” Knick threw hands. “Because thinking has always helped the captain! Thinking has never disappointed the Goblin King! Thinking has never made Wuvvy demand satisfaction for making Rue cry!” He jumped high at the end, pulling at his ears.
The goblin still under the coat cried out, hugging the coat tighter around himself.
“Now you made Hobbert cry!”
Knick roared, running back to the desk and slamming his head against it.
The calmer goblin sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “OK, fine! Let it out.” He threw himself at a pile of garbage, shuffling on it like it was a comfortable bean bag. “Tell me when you’re ready to talk it out like adults.”
Knick huffed, then stomped over and plopped on the ground. Hobbert crawled under the coat, poking his head out from a side closer to his companions and sitting comfortably there.
“We’re good at dueling,” Hobbert quietly said. “Winning might make the Goblin King happy.”
“But Rue…” Knick’s ears drooped. “Why did they cry?” He furrowed his eyebrows. He raised his eyes to glance from one goblin to another. “Do you know, Pnack?”
Pnack curled further into the garbage, ear twitching. “No… and, it doesn’t matter. They demand satisfaction from it, so we did something horrible to them.” He flopped to his back. “It must be it! And since we’re soooooo under them, they didn’t even dignify themselves to say it to our face!”
A sniff, then Hobbert repeated, “Winning might make the Goblin King happy.”
“Yeah.” Knick pouted, dropping his head on his palm. “And then we ask. Ask Wuvvy what she demanded satisfaction for.”
Pnack nodded. He jumped to his feet, hands on his hips authoritatively. “OK goblins! We have a mission for today! The captain must win this duel in the name of the Goblin Court!” He extended his pointer finger in the air, a determined grin on his face. It faltered as he lowered his hand. “And– And figure out what we did to disrespect Rue…”
“Aye aye, Cap.” Knick sighed as he pushed himself up. He straightened up, a devious smirk on his face as he extended his hand forwards. “Let’s show these fey what messing with the bringers of rumpus and ruin causes them.”
Pnack reflected his companion’s grin, eagerly clapping his palm on the back of his. “That’s what I’m talking about.”
Knick and Pnack turned to Hobbert, softer smiles mirrored in each of their faces as their third companion got up and walked up to them—coat heaving his steps.
Hands joined, they touched their foreheads, a rumpus like only the three of them was capable of forming and growing. A seven feet tall, furry, bugbear, with the uniform of a renowned captain and the posture of three goblins in a trenchcoat.
He gave a complicated salute, modified to refer to the three goblins that made him him, and marched with purpose to the lawn’s direction.
