Rukthar

Your character has just arrived in a swampy, dim town. As they look around, their gaze is met with shacks and cabins. It smells of rotted wood and wet moss. They duck and step into a tattered tent, illuminated by a series of candles suspended in the air. At the back of the tent, an old hag raises her head, “What brings you to this dingy town? She begins, then pauses to study your face—”Ah, it’s you. I’ve been expecting you. Sit,” she gestures at a cushion, “Tell me your story.” The fire crackles low. A crooked hag squats across from Rukthar, her many eyes gleaming in the dark. Rukthar keeps his distance, one hand never far from his blade. Hag: cackles softly “Big goblin… one eye gone, heart still beating. You don’t come to old hags for herbs or luck. What do you want, little lord?” Rukthar snorts and shifts his weight, boots scraping stone. “Don’t call me little. I came because you listen. And because you like stories.” Hag: leans forward, nails scratching stone “I do. Especially broken ones. Tell me—how did you get so empty?” Rukthar’s jaw tightens as his gaze drifts to the fire. “I had a den once. Deep tunnels. Glowing fungus. Drums that shook the walls. I was born big, bigger than the rest. Strong enough they thought I’d lead one day.” Hag: grins “Thought,” something went wrong. Rukthar’s hand curls into a fist at his side. “Humans came at dawn. Steel. Fire. Smoke so thick it burned the lungs. I killed two before a man with a red crest put a spear through my right eye.” Rukthar taps the scarred socket with a claw. “Took his throat anyway.” Hag: hisses approvingly “Pain makes fine teachers.” Rukthar’s shoulders rise and fall with a slow, controlled breath. “When the fire died, so did my tribe. I crawled out half-blind and watched the killers ride away laughing. I remember their banners. I always will.” Rukthar clenches his fist; the leather creaks. Hag: “And now you wander. Why not curl up and rot like the rest?” Rukthar straightens and steps closer, his shadow stretching across the cave wall. “Because goblins are broken. Too many tribes. Too many weak chiefs. We fight each other while the world burns us alive. I won’t let that happen again.” Hag: tilts her head “Ahh. Ambition. You want revenge… and more.” Rukthar lifts his chin slightly, his single eye hardening. “I want unity. I’ll break weak chiefs, bind strong ones, and make a banner that makes the world think twice. I’ll become Goblin Lord.” Hag: eyes narrow, voice dropping “Yet you tremble when the fire pops. I smell it on you.” Rukthar bares his teeth in a low snarl, then forces himself to breathe slowly. “Fire in tight places. Smoke with nowhere to run. It still claws at my chest. Fear doesn’t rule me—but it follows.” Hag: laughs, delighted “Good. Fear keeps kings sharp.” Rukthar turns away from the fire, staring into the darkness beyond the cave mouth. “I’m not done growing stronger. Not done learning. When I’m finished, no den will burn alone again.” Hag: waves a claw dismissively “Go then, one-eyed goblin. Come back when the world starts to kneel.” Rukthar pulls his cloak tighter around his shoulders, fixes his single eye forward, and steps back onto the road.

I was born beneath old roots in a goblin den carved from black earth. I was bigger than the others from the start—stronger, harder to kill. The elders said I carried war-chief blood. I only knew that strength kept you breathing. My den taught me how easily goblins die. So I hunted alone, fought harder than needed, and earned scars early. They named me Rukthar after my first blood hunt, when I dragged back prey too large for one goblin. The raiders came at dawn. Humans in steel burned our tunnels and butchered my tribe. I fought them in the smoke and fire, killing two before a man with a red-crested helm drove his spear up beneath my brow. I remember the sound more than the pain. My right eye went dark forever. I tore his throat out anyway. When it ended, my den was ash and blood. I crawled out half-blind and watched the raiders ride away, laughing, their banners burned into my memory. I will never forget them. The wound festered, but I lived. I learned to fight with one eye, to judge distance by motion and instinct. What I lost in sight, I gained in focus. I wander now. Not a chief, not a soldier—just a survivor. Other goblins fear me: too big, too quiet, too scarred. Fear turns into respect when I break stronger foes and do not fall. The road taught me what my den never did—goblins are many, but broken, killing each other while the world hunts us. There is one thing I still fear. Fire in tight places. The crackle of it, the way smoke eats the air and walls glow like they are alive. When flames close in and there is nowhere to run, my chest tightens and my grip shakes. I hide it well. A Goblin Lord cannot show fear. But I remember my den burning, and some nights the smell of smoke wakes me before my blade does. I travel to grow stronger and wiser. I hunt those who burned my home, and I learn how leaders command, not just kill. When my vengeance is done, I will not hide. I will become Goblin Lord. I will crush weak chiefs, bind strong ones, and unite the tribes so no den burns alone again. Let the world laugh. One day, it will kneel before a one-eyed king.