A Fresh Path from the Bowels of History

Monsters die. It's practically their number one responsibility. They get sliced, they get smashed, they get drowned, they get blasted with bolts of lightning, they get filled with bees, they get their heads crushed by super cool falling rocks like what happened to your brother. You remember once hearing claims that a mongrel got snatched up by a giant bird, carried high into the air, and then dropped into an active volcano, which was probably a lie but is still well within the realm of possibility. What monsters don't do, don't ever get to do, is grow old.

They age, of course, once they've reached a certain level of complexity. Goblins don't really grow or age but Hobgoblins do, just like a Human or Elf would. But an elderly Hobgoblin? A Hobgoblin that had actually aged enough to grow feeble and addle-pated? And still survived? That might not be unheard of among the Civilization-Level races in the world, but for someone low enough on the totem pole to still be considered a Monster rather than an "actual" Person, the chances of not falling face-first into a slime and being dissolved at the first sign of one's body failing could only be called "Shitty".

Which is why you are so fucking anxious for the Old Hob, transformed from a bearded old hobgoblin-scarecrow hybrid that had to be dragged into your village to the vigorous-looking, broad-shouldered man with only some striking salt-and-pepper hair to give a hint to his mystical rejuvenation, to finish his second goddamned bowl of food and start talking. About anything.

Spill some juicy secrets already you formerly old bastard.

To your impatient mind, ravenous as always for any new insight or fresh information, it seems like the restored hobgoblin is eating his bowl of rice and pork as slowly as he can just to **** you. A small part of you tries to insist that no, he's clearly just relishing his newly rediscovered faculties, luxuriating in food he can taste and fingers that actually bend to his will. He even picked up a pair of the sticks his more refined kobold hosts use for utensils and gave them a go rather than simply scooping the food directly into his mouth like his tribemates. The rest of you wants that part to shut up, though, in case the hobgoblin starts talking while it's being a goddamn empathetic busybody.

Would it be rude to grab him by the shoulders and start shaking him? At this point you sort of don't know and for real don't care. Luckily your reputation as a polite host is saved by Hilde, who finally manages to shake free of her slack-jawed shock and slam an open palm down on the table. "What in the fuck? What happened to you?!" She gestures around wildly. "What happened to him!"

Hana pipes up, the priestess's eyes roaming the regenerated old man's newly firm and well-muscled body with evident appreciation. "I cast a Revitalize spell on him! I thought it might bring his mind back or something, but it turned him into a hunk!"

That gets the Old Hob to gesture with his chopsticks, letting out a 'tut' in what turns out to be a startling basso profundo. "Point of information: I was restored to being a hunk. And deepest thanks for that, my dear."

Hana giggles as the formerly ancient man kisses her gallantly on the cheek, but Hilde and the other two hobgoblins can only stare agape. You're not going to miss your opening, though. "Wait, 'point of information'? I thought you guys went with Barbaric?"

Old Hob scoffs, which is totally not something Barbaric tribes do right? Barbaric tribes roar and snort and bash things and what have you. "There have been plenty of Hobgoblin Tribes, Shin. Mine happened to have been Civilized."

Hilde manages to overcome her shock, her eyebrows deeply furrowing. "Wait, so you weren't from the destroyed village? There's another Tribe we can all go join? I'm willing to try being Civilized, if that's the goddamn issue here!"

The restored man shakes his head, setting his bowl down. "I wasn't from the village you found, Hilde, but my village didn't make it either. Not a single one has, that I know of."

Hilde's brow furrows even further. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means that I've lived a long time, and sought out our kind for nearly all of that time. And in that time I've never seen a tribe make it. They're usually in ruin long before I even lay eyes on them."

To say this revelation weighs heavily on Hilde would be an understatement; the female all but collapses backwards as she runs a hand down her face and tries to process these developments. Your mate Gero seems a touch confused by it all, however, the big warrior quirking an eyebrow at you as she addresses the Old Hob. "I don't understand. There are lots of hobgoblins, aren't there?"

Old Hob gives a shake of his head. "Not as many as you'd think. Lots of goblins, yes, but fully grown hobgoblins? No. And even then, those that do manage to become hobgoblins normally just turn around and lord over the other goblins. At best they might seek out some other hobgoblins and form a sort of bandit gang; that's typical Monster behavior. Actually taking over territory and trying to start up a true home is relatively aberrant. It has happened; I've seen it myself. And I've only ever seen it fail."

Well topic seems fucking pertinent to your whole situation. "Do you have any clue why?"

The rejuvenated hobgoblin shrugs. "Lots of reasons, which likely stem from a single reason. Simply put, Level One Tribes are desperately frail. Poor location, bad harvests, internal dispute, aggressive neighbors...just about anything can and will spell the end of a fledgling Tribe."

The gathered kobolds murmur worriedly at that, one of the Bruisers raising his voice. "Well...what about Level Two Tribes?"

Old Hob raises his hands in a gesture of regret. "Honestly? Maybe even worse off. Yes, you're inherently stronger than you were, but once you reach Level Two you start attracting attention. And despite how charming your village might be, or how fascinating your burgeoning culture, or how delicious these pork bowls, no one of any stature coming to a Level Two Village is there for any reason other than to burn everything down and then poke around the ashes for things to sell. And that's not even the worst thing that can happen. Sometimes they just vanish." He throws his hands out dramatically, and you're not too proud to admit you flinch backwards. "I've seen Level Two villages that seemed utterly perfect just vanish as I approached them, as if the world had said 'No' and deleted them straight out of existence."

You share a quick, vaguely panicked glance with Momo. You, uh...you had not known any of that. 'Just fucking vanished' is not a particularly respectable way for a monster to die. "Well that...is not great news."

The old hobgoblin pointedly waits for the shocked whispers and distraught rumblings of the crowd to crest before favors them with a performatively quizzical eye. "So why, if there is no hope, have I been searching out more and more Tribes all these years? It's a good question, one you might ask me in fact."

Old Hob looks around expectantly at all of you, his sudden eagerness giving him the odd appearance of a young boy inhabiting the body of a magically Revitalized elderly man. He actually wants you to literally repeat his question back, doesn't he? "...Okay, why have you been doing that?"

He beams at you, tapping a conspiratorial finger to the side of his nose as he theatrically winks. "Because I have a plan."

Uh...seems like he's going to leave it at that. "..........Okay, what plan?"

"It's a plan that was formed ages ago, formed in the ruins of my village! Formed by the collective-!"

You have no doubt it would have continued on like that if Hilde hadn't risen from the table with a exasperated roar, sweeping bowls to the ground with a cacophonous crash that startles the poetically waxing older man out of his reverie. Even the two hobgoblin villagers look riled up. "Oh my GOD, I'd wish you were senile again if it would end this FUCKING babble! We have lugged your ass here from I don't even want to remember where, and I swear to FUCK if you don't get to the point immediately the three of us are going to stomp you to ****!"

Stomped to ****. Another classic way monsters die.

Old Hob blinks once, then coughs into his fist with what can only be embarrassment. "Er...yes. Sorry. It's been so long since my mind was my own, I'd forgotten that I'd planned a speech for this moment ages ago and, er, I guess it all sort just came out. Didn't consider the audience. Apologies...and my thanks, for everything the three of you must have done to get me here."

Hilde drags her hands down her face, clearly trying to draw upon all of the patience she can muster. "Just...okay fine, yes; you're welcome. Will you just tell us your plan, please?!"

Old Hob nods. "Okay. The plan is, we're going to start from scratch. The four of us. We find a nearby unclaimed Conquest spot and form a brand new Level One Tribe."

You and Hilde raise your eyebrows simultaneously at that, sharing a look of incredulity. "Wait, that's your plan? You can't even start a new Tribe with a fewer than ten people."

The old man wags a finger. "Maybe a Kobold can't, but Hobgoblins only need seven. And I have made specifically curated talent choices to push that even lower. I could technically start a new Tribe with just one other hobgoblin, though it would be the worst village ever."

Hilde surges forward, he fists propped up on the table. "But what would the point be? You said low level Tribes don't stand a chance; why would this time be any different?!"

"Because of this."

Old Hob raises his arm, producing something from under the table. It's...you're not really sure what it is. It's sort of a glowing oblong red gem, maybe six inches long and bright red. And it kind of doesn't look like it entirely fits into the world. The edges are all wrong. Hilde stares at it flatly, the two hobgoblin villagers flushing bright orange for some reason as Old Hob continues on. "I found it after my village was destroyed and I've kept it hidden and safe ever since. I've spent years trying to find a hobgoblin tribe that was just right, but it just never worked out. But now, I think I've found the perfect opportunity to use it."

"Your dildo."

Whatever Old Hob was about to say dies an ignoble **** on his lips as the revitalized goblin sputters in shock. "My dil-wait, what?"

Hilde points at the glowing and admittedly-sort-of-penis-shaped gem that Old Hob clutches in a shock. "That's your dildo. You pound your ass with it every night."

"Pound my...I've been HIDING it! I'm not...I'm not PLEASURING myself with it!"

The female hobgoblin villager actually speaks at that. "You, er...sure seemed to be enjoying it. It um....pulses and stuff."

Her male counterpart nods sheepishly. "There was moaning? You were an old man, we thought it'd have been rude to interrupt..."

The rejuvenated hobgoblin whips his head around for any sort of support he can find, eventually looking to Hana who can only shrug. "I think that's hot."

Old Hob does his best to collect himself and what little remains of his dignity. "I...look, my mind was gone, wasn't it? If it seemed like I was hiding the gem....recreationally, it was only because I still knew I needed to keep it safe, but didn't know why, alright? This is not the important part of the plan!"

Momo does her best to salvage the situation, quickly speaking up. "Well what is it then?"

Old Hob snatches up the line Momo has thrown him with the desperation of a drowning man. "It's a Keystone, okay? With this, a strong enough Village becomes a Capital. That makes you an actual Side, not just a Tribe. And with the right planning, a Side can actually have a prayer of surviving."

Hilde slowly sits back down at that, the crowd murmuring again. "But...how would we survive long enough to use it?"

Old Hob nods at that. "An excellent point. We don't."

He abruptly turns, extending the gem in your direction.

"They do."

The crowd gives a stifled gasp at that, intently watching as you blink down at the otherworldly gem. A long moment passes before you feel compelled to speak. "I...look, I know you want me to take it from you right now. But, er....it sort of...smells?"

The kobolds in attendance take an in-unison sniff at that, then as one scoot away from the table as Old Hob turns such a vivid orange that you entirely suspect his skin is going to sizzle off. Liquefied by Embarrassment. That would certainly be a new way for a Monster to die.