The stench of fungus and sweat coalesced in the air like miasma in this perilous encampment hanging off a massive cliffedge down to depths unknown. Rotten wood, vines and repurposed scrap metal combined into a large village of sickly thin creatures known to the surface as Goblins. Their structures strewn about haphazardly in any space they could occupy quickly with an entanglement of swirling paths connecting them like a maze of makeshift bridges and flimsy platforms.


    The creatures swarmed about their nest of trash, actual trash as objects of all kinds lay discarded left and right floor or not. A first impression of careless insanity is a given when observing a goblin fortress, yet keener eyes note the rough outline of palisade walls, fortified pathways and even machines of war alongside them. From contraptions that seem to chuck sacks filled with who-knows-what, to oozing pots overhanging doorways filled with you-dont-want-to-know and pathways trapped to break, dropping the passers-by into pits of thats-just-sick.


    At the centre of it all, fleshy globules lay stacked upon each other like a hive of greenish cacoons. As the males slaved away ferrying resources and making makeshift tools elsewhere, here the females slaved away stuffing food into pipe-like protrusions of the hive, as often as the men could bring it. Occasionally the caccons would burst out, splashing all its surroundings in a warm mucus of ick, as dozens of goblinoid spawn crawled their way out almost fully grown.


    Warped in their very nature, yet a cruel intelligence filled each Goblin as they powered through their day, denizens worked to the bone by whip wielding higher ranked goblinoids overwatching the streets, them each listening to another of greater status in the clan lazing about barking orders, yet all followed the one and only daily goblin king.


    Daily, because as he sat his fat obese ass on his throne of silver and steel, an axe found itself perched in his forehead. A larger goblin threw the old king off his throne platform, taking the crown of scrap and stuffing it heartily amongst his mess of hair, the human-sized creature bellowed out in victory.


    A bellow cutshort, as a dagger then poked out of his throat, going hoarse before falling off choking on his own blood. Replaced by a stout greenskin, whom raised his hands posturing for respect from his now underlings. Realizing just then as one of the smithy goblins groaned, he was going to need a new crown as the old king had fallen off the cliff with it.


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    Hearing the barks of what may or may not remain to be today’s king, the smithy worked the bellows and smelted the scrap down they could find while the eldest there picked through a selection of old rugged crown moulds of varying sizes. Picking what he thought would fit their short king best, the workers ran the molten iron down pipes of stone and finally into the chosen mould.


    Once again, the smithy goblins groaned, having turned from their work to find a new king. Tall but lanky, the yellowish goblin held the old king by his now crushed throat. So the eldest at the smithy emptied the mould back into the forge with great disdain.


    It was time to choose another mould, and the elder began doing so diligently as his new king barked out demandingly.


    Until, a gasp echoed out through the clan.


    Followed by the shuddering of the entire community, as the birthing hive quivered and discoloured from its normal green to a feverish red.


    Even the overseers stood and gathered at its base, as shock quickly turned to religious awe, the goblins began to chant and dance, ritually calling to the hive as its every cocoon shrunk then before shrivelling up into a dark dead black.


    All, except one.


    As the goblins sang, screeched and shrieked in praise, the cocoon shuddered and thundered like a drum. Within its crimson almost see through film, a dark form took shape. Humanoid and lanky like any other of their kind, yet ears stretching out far longer than the norm.


    The figure then clasped the cocoon’s edge, their clawed hand crushing the wall and forcefully bursting it aside.


    As its insectoid wings sprung out of its back like a sprawling cloak, its crimson red skin shimmered under the dim lights of the fungi that shone across the town. Its form twice the size of even the tallest goblin, with a toned body of sheer muscle to match.


    Opening its newborn eyes, the creature revealed a set of deep ambers, scouring out with a keen intellect and hungering gaze.


    “Bow.” It hissed, and the greenskins bent the knee.


    A cacophony of grunts followed, rhythmic in nature and ritualistic in spirit.


    The goblins welcomed their forever king, for a hobgoblin had been born.


    It sniffed the air, its eyes glistening with a need, a destiny.


    “I smell Troll.”  Stepping down from the hive, the lumbering creature chuckled wetly.


    “I SMELL TROLL!” It bellowed with outstretched arms, and the goblins repeated the words in a feverish pitch, the sound echoing out into the surrounding caverns and sending both fauna and flora into a panicked flight.