A Hobgoblin (Adapenguinboy)

The Hobgoblin stared into the pool, watching his reflection warp and settle with each ripple. A gaunt face looked back at him: grey‑green skin pulled tight over sharp bones, small tusks pushing up from his jaw, red eyes dulled by exhaustion and irritation. He looked like someone carved out of lean muscle and stubborn survival, someone who’d had to fight for every scrap he’d ever held.

His long, clawed fingers hovered over the water. They didn’t shake, even though the rest of him ached. A faint breeze slipped into the cave, stirring the surface and carrying the damp, earthy smell of the forest outside. His clothes were the usual patchwork—leather scraps, torn cloth, bits of hide. Enough to cover him, not enough to keep out the cold.

His short sword leaned against the wall, battered but cared for. Beside it sat his water flask, hide stitched together with twine that had seen better years. Cracked, stained, barely holding together—yet it still worked. Those two items were the closest things he had to possessions. Not treasures. Just tools he’d kept alive because he had to.

The cave wasn’t much more. Bones scattered across the floor, though he couldn’t remember when they’d first appeared. He cleared them out sometimes, but they always came back after those strange, empty stretches he couldn’t explain. The walls were bare. His bed was a pile of straw and rags. Water dripped from the ceiling and gathered in the basin where his reflection stared up at him.

This was his life. It had always been his life.

He stepped back and let out a low growl, more frustration than threat. The cave mouth gaped behind him, a rough tear in the lower slopes of Mount Imporne. Beyond it, the land dropped away into rocky grassland dotted with stubborn heather. And past that—trees. Endless trees.

The forest stretched out like a dark sea, shifting and rippling under the wind. Beautiful, in its own way. But it was also a warning. Anything could be moving under that canopy. Anything could be waiting.

Goblins lived somewhere down there, clustered in their crude villages. He knew they existed, but he wasn’t welcome among them. Eastward, the Xvarts burrowed into the rocks, blue‑skinned pests always plotting something. The Tasloi skittered through treetop huts, guarding their little scraps of territory. Even the gnolls, chaotic and half‑mad, had carved out camps and warbands.

Everyone had somewhere to belong. Everyone had numbers, weapons, a place.

He had a cave. A patch of grass. And the knowledge that if any of those creatures found him alone, they’d tear him apart without hesitation. The forest wasn’t just big—it was hungry.

And he was very small.

The mountain Hobgoblins? He’d never been one of them. A runt. A mistake. Their warbands and rigid ranks had no place for him. The Goblins, the Xvarts, the Tasloi, even the gnolls—maybe he could’ve fit somewhere if he weren’t so weak. But he was. So he didn’t.

He rubbed at his jaw, a rough, humourless breath scraping out of him. Tactical Awareness—his “grand gift,” the one talent the world had bothered to carve into him. A skill meant for commanders, for those who stood at the heart of a warband and shaped its movements like a blade through water. Yet every time he woke, it was alone. No warriors. No formation. No battlefield. Just a cave, a patch of grass, and the long stretch of forest waiting to swallow him again. What use was a commander with no one to command? What good was a gift that mocked him each time he drew breath?

But none of that was the worst part.

The worst part was the cycle.

Adventurers always came.

He clenched his fists, frustration tightening through his arms. They killed him. They looted him. They left. Sometimes it was fast—a blade, an arrow, a flash of magic. Other times they dragged it out, testing new abilities on him like he was a practice dummy. When they were done, they took whatever scraps he’d managed to gather.

And then he woke up again. In the cave. With nothing.

They didn’t even kill him for loot half the time. Sometimes it was just for the experience points. He wasn’t worth much—weak, low‑level, barely a threat. But that didn’t matter. They came anyway. Again and again.

He looked toward the forest, lip curling. There was no escaping it. No end. He wasn’t a leader. He had no warband, no tribe, nothing. The best he could hope for was to stay hidden long enough to gather a little food or patch up the cave. But they always found him.

His hand brushed the hilt of his sword. He’d learned to fight in his own way—simple strikes, careful timing, using terrain to his advantage. Ambushes. Hit‑and‑run. Anything to tilt the odds. But adventurers had magic, enchanted weapons, endless drive. And he had a blade that barely held an edge.

The wind shifted again, carrying the forest’s scent. He turned toward the cave entrance, gripping his sword. He needed supplies—wood, food, anything. The cave was too bare. Without preparation, he wouldn’t last long.

He didn’t know why he bothered. Instinct, maybe. Survival. Even though he knew exactly how it would end.

Another adventurer would come. Today, tomorrow—it didn’t matter. They’d kill him. Take everything. And he’d wake up again. Alone. With nothing.

The world didn’t change for monsters like him. It just kept spinning, sending adventurers to remind him how small he really was.

Jaw tight, he stepped outside. Dawn’s first light washed the rocks in cold grey. Mist clung to the ground, drifting toward the treeline. He froze, scanning the sky for winged predators. Nothing moved, but the silence felt dangerous. Every step across the open slope left him exposed.

He moved quickly, slipping from stone to stone until the forest swallowed him.

It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. This was his life—death, looting, waking up, repeating.

There was no escape.

No hope.

Just survival, for as long as he could manage.