You, and the Dark Lord, both need some convincing

"Submit..." You taste the word, rummaging through Dingro's mind. Dingro knows plenty about submitting before the Dark Lord. It had been his life. It had also gotten him and his family killed.

"Submit... like Dingro. Like my puppet," Your eyes turn towards the Dark Lord, "Like your puppet. You want me to be your puppet?"

The Dark Lord's voice is again almost amused, "Fascinating. You were just created, and already... all those thoughts, and you must be using... Dingro's?" The Dark Lord had obviously never bothered to learn the goblin's name himself, "Mind? His language? Yet I doubt Dingro ever thought as well as you, as completely, except when thinking about how to eat. You've gone beyond the resources you should have. And if that's the case, and if you can do to others what you've done here, you will gain so much more. Other minds. My enemy's minds. Maybe you are too dangerous. But I'm dangerous too. And the way you've grown... it's not Dingro. It's not the blood or goblins, or Uldar's magic..."

"I think it's me."

"... You're too much to simply discard. You may also be too dangerous to trust. But in this place, I'm in control, and I can decide whether to keep you locked up in a box, or let you free upon the fair races that stand against my rule."

"Tell me," The voice of darkness pauses, while you digest his words, his understanding, "What do you desire?"

"Desire..." You taste that word too. You search. Dingro's aching, dying mind flashes images of food. It flashes images of sex, goblin women and human, elf, dwarf, orc, and gnome women. More women, every kind of woman. It flashes the feeling of triumph, of Dingro fucking his brother's wife and reveling in knowing he had fathered the children his unknowing brother had supported. It flashes images of blood, of conquest, of bludgeoning his tribal leader to death and taking his place. Of killing the prettier folk of the north. Blood, sex, and food. All the desires of a goblin, of a little brute, of Dingro. That was what Dingro knows of desire.

But you are not Dingro. What do you desire?

You remember smiling, and laughing at Dingro. Dying, pained Dingro. The delightful, playful feeling of control over your silly puppet. You go back further.

You remember withdrawing your stretchies, before you even had language, when you thought you might be hurt. You remember the dark, the shapes, and the light. You protected yourself. You remember.

You remember the Dark Lord's first words. Uldar's first words. That you were made from him, his darkness, and that you were made from death. That you were Failure. No, the Dark Lord said no, that you are not, that you are... fascinating. You search Dingro's mind again, coming up with your own thoughts, your own word, a combination of the Dark Lord's words and Dingro's limited vocabulary. You are... special. Dingro knows that word. You like it.

A word comes again, a word you had heard: Seed.

A flood of imagery came from that single word, from Dingro's mind. Cum. Pregnancy. Fruit, and its hard pits that grew. Growth came from that. Babies. Hard shells that containe everything - a future, a species. Life and the beginning of more life, of extension, of eternity. From one seed, another, and more. You are hard on the outside, your tentacles are your growth. Your knowledge is your growth. Both. You begin putting things together that Dingro never dreamed of. The Dark Lord was right, you are beyond Dingro. You need more. You needed to grow.

"Seed," You say aloud with Dingro's lips. "I am not your puppet. I am your seed. I am your pregnancy, no... your..." The words come, but not as fast as you can think. Dingro, dying Dingro, his mind is firing off its last. You are gathering what yoh can, but it won't last. It's not enough. Urgency. You must have more, more time. Another to seed.

The voice of darkness rumbled, "My... seed."

Yes. You have one chance. Dingro is done. "Yes... I am your seed, Dark Lord. I am not your puppet. I am your seed. Let me grow. Let me b-b-be-c-come - "

Dingro's bleeding, dying body can't stand any more. Against your will, against all your efforts, against you pumping his heart with your silky stretchies, prompting his nerves, it fails. It is unable to sustain itself, even with your support.

It dies, Dingro dies, leaving you again in a soundless world. Again without a voice.