A Storm Brews

[Boomzerang 515]

 

A STORM BREWS

 

The days grew and shrunk in size, wars were waged and battles were fought.

 

And yet, his hunger for warfare, for death was insatiable. He would spend months, even years at a time perfecting weapons - explosive arrows, which would take time to detonate, canisters which would release a pungent odour, paralyzing, if not outright killing any hapless enough to be caught in its perimeter;Thanium bombs that would chill their victims to the bone, and cause those not careful of where they treaded frostbite. Although, throughout all of his endeavours for the deadliest arms, there was one element with which he mingled not.

 

Fire.

 

Gunpowder would not light itself; gas, until released, would not harm a soul. Even thanium, powerful as it may be, cannot emerge from the bowels of the earth without aid. Fire, on the other hand, could start anywhere for any amount of reasons, and when it started, few would be brave enough to stop it.

 

For months, Chuck-ee wrecked his brain, pulled enough hair from his head to make thousands of feet of rope, downed enough bottles of ale to drown even the tallest of Uruks. He tried many things - wood, peat, even the fur of many animals.Nothing worked. Nothing until he dropped a flame near his twenty-fifth bottle of ale that day. It went up in flames, and for nearly five entire minutes, it burned, lighting the workshop around him. In the flickering light, the goblin grinned.

 

He decided this stuff needed to be carried easily - a small pint bottle would do. He filled his first bottle with grog from his own reserve, and soaked a rag in some of it. The rag was used to plug the mouth of the bottle, and so, the first of many weapons was created - he decided to name these things, ‘Peturl Bombs’ in honour of his father, Peturl-Bom.

 

Chuck-ee soon began stockpiling these things in a large warehouse, to be used by a warband that he believed he would inevitably own, and until recently, they lay in wait. But again, Chuck-ee is restless, and he knows that one day, he will again wreak havoc upon Axios.

 

★ ★ ★

 

The goblin strode into the sandstone city with a sneer on his face. All around, he say bland faces - a blue orc, streaks of black adorning his face, passing over his eyes. A crimson one, clad in plate armour, his hair a black devoid of any light reflection. He continued toward the city’s forge, where he planted his feet, and beckoned toward the crimson orc.

“Who’s in charge ‘round here?”

“I am.” The goblin looked mildly disgusted.
“Never did like you Raguks, but I suppose I’ll bear being led by one. What is your-” The Rex had lost interest in their conversation - instead, he went with the blue orc toward a large palace seemingly carved into the cliff face nearby. Chuck-ee decided he would follow, although he was halted at a tall door. Into a sign nearby were simply carved the words, “War Room.” After attempting to force himself into the room, and consequently tiring himself out, he simply left, and headed back toward the city.

 

After an hour had passed, the Rex returned to the city, where Chuck-ee would lie in preparation to confront him. “Oi, c***, you walked away from our conversation, and I intend to finish it!”
“This goblin again? One more word out of your mouth and I’ll appoint you Cuntsgoth of the Uzg.”
“I thought you were the only holder of that title. Trying to delegate power, I suppose?” He succeeded in enraging the Rex, who promptly stood at his full height, a rather intimidating seven feet and nine inches. “You want to f****** fight?”
“Aye, let’s go, fenian c***.”

 

They headed deeper into the city, where all hell broke loose; when it seemed that Kuntklobbera would be the victor by a landslide, the goblin not having landed one strike on him, something deep inside the red-haired being stirred. Something ancient. Something that he felt only in the midst of battle. Something that made him lust for blood.

Without hesitation, the lank being reached into his trouser pocket. And produced a small bottle of booze, only half a pint in volume. The difference between this and others, however, was that it was topped not with a cork bung, as would be custom. Instead, one would find a soaked rag, reeking of strong ale. The Rex, curious as to the contents of the bottle, stood in defiance, and allowed the goblin to finish.

 

Soon, the rag stopping the liquid from pouring out was lit, and the bottle hurtled toward the Urukish King. It struck true, and shattered on impact; this caused its contents to coat the Rex, and as the flaming rag came closer to fuel, the red being burst into an inferno, causing him to howl in agony. The goblin danced and kicked up the sand around him, screeching in delight, “LOOK AT HIM GO, LOOK AT HIM GO!”

 

Kuntklobbera was still, and seeing this, the goblin approached. He placed one foot on the Rex’s back, and began chanting his own name victoriously - this celebration was not to last, as soon, the Rex had risen from the ashes, blistered and scarred from the fire. Without delay, and blinded by his own bloodlust, he floored the goblin, and promptly shot a foot toward his head. Everything went black

 

But this would not be his final less-than-pleasant encounter with Chuck-ee, not by a longshot, for within the goblin’s mind, a storm brewed, a storm much like the one that brewed when he wished for blood to be drawn, and which caused him to endlessly evolve his weaponry.

 

And soon, that storm would be set free.