Arrival of the Wroughtfangs

Grashok awoke to the warmth of Maren curled against his side, her honey-blonde hair splayed across the pillow. She was deep in sleep, her breathing soft and steady. For a moment, he allowed himself to linger, his hand resting lightly on the curve of her waist. Then he sighed, quietly shifting out from under the covers. As he rose, he pulled the blanket gently back over her, taking care not to disturb her slumber.

He stretched, the ache of the night’s exertions pleasantly fresh in his muscles, and turned to the corner where his gear lay. Dressing quickly, his attention was caught by the glowing notification pop-ups lingering in the corner of his vision. Skimming through the details of resource gains, training updates, and minor alerts, he dismissed them with a flick of his thoughts.

The faint sound of goblin feet scurrying along the corridor pulled his focus. He moved to the door and cracked it open, revealing a goblin messenger bouncing nervously on his feet.

“Chief! Elder want you! Entrance hall, quick, quick!” the goblin said, his words tumbling over each other in a rush.

Grashok arched a brow. “What’s this about?”

The goblin scratched his head, his oversized ears twitching. “Big group coming, Chief. Lots of goblins. Big, big group! Scouts saw them moving through forest. Coming this way!”

That got Grashok moving. Sparing one last glance at the sleeping Maren, he closed the door behind him and strode down the corridor, the messenger hurrying to keep up, whilst Skarn fell in at his side from where he had been sleeping outside the door.

When he reached the entrance hall, the Elder was already there, his face set with tension as he stared out through a narrow slit in the dungeon’s defensive stonework. Grashok joined him, peering out toward the sweeping expanse of forest below the mountain’s lower slopes.

“What’s happening?” Grashok demanded.

The Elder didn’t turn, his voice grave. “A goblin tribe approaches. They’re making their way up from the western forest — many of them. No signs of aggression yet, but their numbers are… significant.”

Grashok frowned. “Which tribe?”

“The Wroughtfangs,” the Elder said, finally meeting his eyes.

Grashok didn’t immediately recognise the name, but the Elder continued before he could ask. “They’re one of the western tribes. Their ways are chaotic—troublemakers, prone to raiding even their own kind. I’ve kept the main door shut for now, as there’s also fresh tribute waiting outside. With the Wroughtfangs approaching, I deemed it unwise to send anyone out until we knew their intent.”

Grashok nodded, appreciating the caution. He glanced to the side, where Sylrith and Nyxie were barking orders, organising the goblins and Xvarts into a defensive line. Shields and spears were arrayed in a disciplined formation, while archers took up elevated positions along the walls.

It was a far cry from the ragged handful of survivors he’d started with — scattered, untrained, and barely coordinated. Seeing how far they’d come stirred a flicker of pride in his chest.

Before long, movement appeared at the forest’s edge. The Wroughtfangs emerged from the treeline and began ascending the rocky grassland slope toward the dungeon. They were a wild‑looking group, their mismatched armour and crude weapons making them appear more like scavengers than a proper tribe. Their leader strode at the front, a wiry goblin with a jagged scar running down one cheek. Despite his scrappy appearance, he exuded a certain charisma, his toothy grin wide and unapologetic.

As they reached the lower slope, the leader raised a hand, signalling for his followers to halt. The entire tribe bunched behind him, spreading out across the grassland in a loose, uneven mass. The leader remained at their front, ensuring every Wroughtfang could see and hear what came next.

The dungeon gates rumbled open.

Grashok stepped out to meet them, arms crossed over his broad chest. Behind him, his own goblins filed out in disciplined ranks, spears in hand and shields locked at their sides. They moved with practised precision, forming a solid line at Grashok’s back — a stark contrast to the Wroughtfangs’ chaotic sprawl.

The reaction was immediate.

Snorts and snickers rippled through the Wroughtfang ranks.

“Hur hur, lookit them! Standin’ all stiff‑stiff!”

“Ha! They march like sticks got stuck in backs!”

“Shields in line? Pah! Hiding from wind, maybe!”

One goblin puffed out his chest and mimicked Grashok’s troops with an exaggerated stiff‑legged stomp, earning a chorus of cackling laughter.

Another shouted, “Boss, these ones look like they scared to move! Maybe they break if they bend!”

The tribe howled, jostling each other as they pointed at the disciplined formation behind Grashok.

The Wroughtfang leader barked a laugh of his own, his cocky smirk widening. “You Grashok, huh?” he called out, swaggering a few paces closer, his jagged‑toothed grin wide and audacious. His voice was rough, heavy with a western accent that turned his words into a brash, staccato rhythm. “Big dungeon boss, they say. Strong. Tough. Hmm? You don’t look so tough.”

Behind him, his tribe erupted again, jeering and hooting as they craned their necks to get a better look at Grashok and his disciplined line.

Grashok’s eyes narrowed, his arms crossed over his chest. “You came all this way just to poke fun at me?”

The leader’s grin widened, his scarred face full of mockery. “Poke fun? No, no! We come ‘cause west no fun any more! Tasloi war chief? Pfft. Weak! Stupid! Only rules, no fights. We Wroughtfangs—we like chaos, raids, excitement! But west boring now.” He leaned forward, squinting up at Grashok with exaggerated scrutiny. “They say you better. Big boss with big dungeon. More fun here, maybe?”

Grashok’s gaze flicked to the other Wroughtfangs. They were a wild-looking bunch, each more dishevelled than the last, their armour a patchwork of scavenged metal and hide. Yet, there was no mistaking their confidence, the way they held themselves with the arrogance of goblins who had survived countless skirmishes and revelled in it.

“You expect me to take you in because you’re bored?” he asked, his voice cool.

“Not just bored,” the leader snapped, straightening with mock indignation. “Tasloi chief, Telrin, think he big boss. Say, ‘Do this, do that.’ We no like. We goblins! We fight when we want, raid when we want. But just before we leave to make mischief…” He leaned closer, lowering his voice theatrically. “Message comes. From great priestess. She say, ‘Go find big chief Grashok. He make things exciting.’ So we listen. We come.”

Another goblin from the tribe chimed in, his voice shrill and defiant. “You lucky, boss! Wroughtfangs best goblins in west! Fast, clever, strong. We bring good fight!”

“Yeah!” another added. “Tasloi too scared to fight us! We make trouble there, and what they do? Hide in trees, shake like leaves!”

Grashok arched a brow, unimpressed. “If you’re so strong and clever, why leave? Why not rule the west yourselves?”

The leader threw his head back and cackled, his laugh loud and sharp. “Rule west? Bah! Ruling boring. No fights, no raids, just sit on throne and give orders. That not us. We want excitement! Priestess say you make dungeon strong, full of battles and blood. We like that. We want that.”

Nyxie, who had been observing from a short distance, stepped forward with a lazy smirk. “All that noise… but I don’t see anything worth bragging about. If you’re so mighty, show it.”

The Wroughtfangs bristled, puffing out their chests.

One goblin barked back, “We bring fight‑fight, smash‑smash! Real goblin stuff! Not this stand‑in‑line boring!”

“Fast raiders, good scouts,” another boasted. “We sneak like shadows, hit hard, leave before anyone know what happen!”

The leader sneered. “Better fighters than these line‑walkers. All neat‑neat, like they scared to step wrong!”

The Wroughtfangs let out another round of jeers, clearly enjoying themselves.

Grashok raised a hand, silencing the group with a low growl. “You talk big. But words are cheap. I need loyalty. Discipline. If you join me, you fight when I say, raid when I command, and follow my rules. Understand?”

The Wroughtfang leader’s grin faltered for a moment before he shrugged, still cocky. “Rules, eh? We not like rules much. But… you strong. Maybe worth it. Priestess say you different, so we give you chance.”

A notification flickered into Grashok’s vision:

Accept Goblin Tribe: Wroughtfangs

[Confirm] [Decline]

He stared at the unruly crowd before him — swaggering, loud, and clearly unused to taking orders. They were strong, yes, but undisciplined. A liability.

Grashok snorted and selected Decline.

The leader blinked. “Decline? Why? We offer strength!”

The Wroughtfangs muttered among themselves, their pride pricked.

Grashok’s expression darkened, his voice cutting through their muttering. “Let’s see if you can back it up. You lot think you’re better than my goblins?”

The Wroughtfang leader barked a laugh, his cocky smirk widening. “Better? Ha! We not think — we know! You weaklings couldn’t survive a day in west! Wroughtfangs best!”

Laughter and cheers erupted from his tribe, their confidence unshaken.

“Thirty of your strongest,” Grashok rumbled. “Line them up. Now.”

The Wroughtfangs fell silent for a moment before their leader barked a laugh. “Only thirty? Fine! We take it easy on you!” He turned to his tribe, shouting, “You heard boss! Thirty best, step up!”

The goblins scrambled, shoving and bickering as they formed a line. Their chosen fighters stood tall, flexing and sneering as if victory were already assured.

At Grashok’s curt gesture, two of his own goblins broke formation and sprinted back toward the training hall. They returned moments later with armfuls of wooden practice spears and clubs, distributing them quickly along both lines with brisk, efficient movements. The Wroughtfangs grumbled at the sight of the wooden weapons, but took them all the same.

As they settled, Grashok watched them for a moment, taking in the full measure of the tribe that had swaggered up to his gates like conquerors. They laughed, jostled, and traded exaggerated boasts, their mismatched armour clattering with every movement. Their wooden weapons were held with careless confidence, and their postures radiated the same chaotic bravado he’d seen the moment they arrived.

He frowned. Confidence was valuable — but overconfidence was a weakness he couldn’t afford.

“These Wroughtfangs…” Nyxie murmured beside him, a sly grin tugging at her lips. “They really think they’re something special, don’t they?”

Grashok turned to his own warriors, who stood in disciplined ranks, spears held with precision. He selected fifteen of his best and lined them up opposite the Wroughtfangs.

“Fifteen?” one of the Wroughtfangs sneered. “This not even fair!”

“Fair?” Grashok’s voice boomed. “This is training, not a game. Show me what you’ve got.”

The Wroughtfangs exchanged cocky grins, some placing bets on how quickly they would win. Grashok caught snippets of their muttered boasts:

“Ten seconds, maybe less.”

“Shield wall? Ha! They hiding behind wood like cowards!”

“Soon, we be running this tribe. Show them how it’s done!”

The match began.

The Wroughtfangs charged with wild abandon, their chaotic style relying on individual skill and brute strength. But they quickly discovered that Grashok’s goblins were a different breed. The shield wall held firm, spears thrusting in synchronised precision. Every Wroughtfang attack was met with unyielding resistance, their strikes glancing off shields or being parried with ease.

The disciplined tactics of Grashok’s goblins dismantled the Wroughtfangs’ uncoordinated assault. The air filled with the clang of weapons and the grunts of exertion as one by one, the Wroughtfangs fell. Their confidence turned to frustration, and frustration turned to desperation.

By the end, the Wroughtfangs were sprawled on the ground, groaning and defeated, while Grashok’s goblins stood victorious, barely winded.

The Wroughtfang leader’s face turned a mottled red, his humiliation evident. He ripped off his training sword and drew a real blade from his belt, his eyes blazing with rage.

“This not over!” he snarled, charging at one of Grashok’s goblins.

Grashok moved faster than anyone expected. He stepped into the leader’s path, his massive fist swinging in a blur. The impact was thunderous, the blow catching the leader square in the face and sending him crumpling to the ground in an unconscious heap.

The remaining Wroughtfangs froze, their bravado evaporating.

Grashok loomed over the fallen leader, his voice a thunderous roar. “Confidence without discipline is foolishness. You want to join my tribe? Then learn to fight as a tribe.” His words echoed across the slope, each syllable cutting through the silence like a blade.

The Wroughtfangs wilted under his glare, their earlier swagger draining away.

A new notification appeared:

Goblin Tribe: Wroughtfangs has requested to join your clan.

[Confirm] [Decline]

This time, the Wroughtfangs bowed their heads, their arrogance gone.

Grashok considered them — bruised pride, shaken egos, but now listening.

Only now did he select Confirm.

He returned his gaze to them. “The Wroughtfangs are no more. You will learn how to fight properly, how to work together. Maybe — maybe — one day you’ll be good enough to fight for me. Until then, you’re nothing but fools with swords.”

The Wroughtfangs nodded meekly, their arrogance shattered.

Grashok stepped forward, his towering presence commanding their full attention. His voice was low but carried an edge that promised consequences. “From this moment, Sylrith is your leader. She will teach you to fight as my warriors fight — with discipline, unity, and skill. You’ll learn to hold a line, to cover each other, and to fight for something bigger than your overblown egos.”

The Wroughtfangs exchanged uneasy glances, the weight of Grashok’s words sinking in.

He leaned forward, his glare drilling into the group. “And make no mistake — if any of you give her trouble, you’ll learn what happens the hard way.”

Grashok turned his gaze to Sylrith, who stood at the edge of the scene with her arms crossed, a satisfied smirk on her lips. He nodded to her.

Sylrith returned the gesture, her eyes gleaming with an eager edge. She stepped forward, her voice sharp and commanding as she addressed the Wroughtfangs. “You heard him. From now on, you answer to me. We’ll see if you can back up all that bluster—or if you’re just more mouths to feed.” She let the threat hang in the air before barking, “Dismissed!”

The Wroughtfangs scrambled to obey, dragging their unconscious leader with them as they retreated under Sylrith’s watchful gaze.

As they retreated, Nyxie sidled up to Grashok, a sly grin on her face. “That was satisfying.”

Grashok let out a low growl, his eyes still fixed on the retreating Wroughtfangs. “They’ve got potential. But first, we’ll let Sylrith beat the stupidity out of them.”

Nyxie chuckled. “Looking forward to it.”

Grashok turned his gaze to the tribute being hauled inside, large chests and assorted goods carried by his goblins with a mix of pride and efficiency. As the scene unfolded before him, he leaned slightly toward Nyxie, keeping his voice low. “Did you notice any magic users among the Wroughtfangs?”

Nyxie tilted her head, her sharp eyes narrowing as she thought back to the earlier events. “A handful, yes. None too impressive from what I saw, but they have potential.”

“Good,” Grashok said, his tone firm. “Take them aside and put them under your command. Train them, mould them. I want their power focused and useful.”

Nyxie smirked, nodding in acceptance of the task. “Consider it done.”

For a moment, silence hung between them as they both observed the goblins diligently hauling in the tribute. The clatter of chests and the occasional barked orders filled the air. Then Nyxie broke the quiet, her voice laced with playful mischief.

“So,” she began with a wry smile, “how was your night with the beautiful human, Maren? Did she satisfy the ‘big boss’ adequately?” She finished with a lewd grin, clearly enjoying herself.

Grashok’s response was as blunt as it was factual. “She did. No complaints.”

Nyxie’s grin widened at his emotionless tone. “You’re as subtle as ever.”

Grashok let out a bark of laughter. “Did all of you know?” he asked, though the glint in his eyes suggested he already knew the answer.

“Oh, we knew,” Nyxie said, her laugh chiming in response. “Maren asked Snippa, Sylrith, and me if we minded. And, well…” She shrugged with a knowing smile. “We didn’t. Why would we? You’re our leader, Grashok. Strong, capable, and, let’s be honest, quite a prize for anyone bold enough to catch your attention.”

Her tone turned more serious, though her expression remained warm. “You’ve brought us all something we never thought we’d have—a future. Stability. Strength. So why wouldn’t we share? It benefits all of us to keep you happy, and frankly, you’ve earned that loyalty. Plus,” she added with a teasing grin, “it’s not like any of us expected you to be tied to just one woman.”

Grashok grunted in acknowledgement, her words both flattering and logical. Nyxie stepped closer, her mischievous smile returning.

“Of course, others have been talking about it,” she said slyly. “Don’t be surprised if you start getting more visitors. Just remember…” She paused, her large violet eyes glinting. A faint crackle of violet energy danced across her fingertips. “The magic, Grashok. Out of bed…” She let the spark fade, then leaned in, voice dropping to a playful whisper. “…and in bed.”

With that, she pulled him into a passionate kiss, her lips lingering on his for a long moment before she pulled away. Turning with a flourish, she began to walk off, her hips swaying with deliberate exaggeration.

As she reached the corner, Nyxie glanced back over her shoulder, catching his eyes still on her. With a saucy smile, she gave an exaggerated wiggle of her backside before disappearing around the bend, leaving Grashok standing there with a bemused expression.