The Firelands had never really treated him well. It wasn’t uncommon to fight a bloodthirsty beast or a naturality of the bursting flames erupting from the ground. It had it’s beauty, though. To him, atleast, the darkened, charred peaks, the magma-riddled ground and the few spots he could set foot and walk in that wasteland, free of the danger of maddened adventurers chasing riches in some unknown region. This one was well known. No man, sane or crazy, would dare adventure there. It was suicide. Not for him.. He knew his way. ‘The land of the Spirits’, some of his brothers said. Truly, only the Spirits could be capable of creating that beauty. No one else, nothing else.
It was harsh to walk around in the burning heat. He was a mere goblin, nothing close to the might of the Firelands, encumbering him with the weight of dominance, roaring out it’s embers in a desperate attempt to consume the descendant of Krug. He wouldn’t fret. No. Not now. He had come this far, on his blind journey of self-knowledge. His name, his faith in his brothers, his willpower... How had he kept it all, through all his nation had gone through. The questions hit him like the battering ram hits the gate. He was out there, seeking reason, seeking source, seeking ‘why’. He knew that he’d probably find nothing, but trying had never killed anyone, he told himself. How naïve. He was in no place to question the will of the Spirits, though, as they drove him into this periodical peregrination. “Leydluk’s doing this...” he thought to himself everyday he woke up, thinking of the past Rex as inspirations to continue pummeling through the obstacles of the Firelands.
Why, though? Why must he submit himself to the heat, the pain, the harshness? Only because he had a dream? Because ‘the Spirits told him so’? No. He couldn’t dare let those thoughts take over. He couldn’t give up. Not now. It kept hitting the back of his head, though. How could he keep the battering ram? His gates where weak. His will wasn’t the strongest. Broken, shattered. Why? He didn’t know. He felt as if he had nothing to grasp, yet everything at his reach. He felt emptyness. “I could be the strongest, wisest Goblin in history... or I can go down as a no-one...” he thought to himself. He stood there, atop a piece of stone, covered by magma rocks and other stones in his view, for him to step onto and continue his trek.
“This... this is...” he stopped, sitting down on the fumeled rock, ignoring the pain the heat was inflicting him. It was hard to do that, but... He had to. He had to focus. He eyed out into the rest of the fiery wasteland. How come such destructive beauty existed? A perfect creation of deities beyond his comprehension, his understandement. He wanted to understand, but he couldn’t figure out how. He reckoned shamans did, but even then, they had doubts aswell. All the corners of the Goblin’s mind scrambled hastily for an answer to an unknown question. A constant doubt. A constant doubt as to if he was going to see the end of the day, if the so-craved Stargush’Stroh wasn’t just around the corner. He was honorable, or, atleast tried to.
“My name...” he thought. His name. A mockery to his stature. A mockery to him, cast upon by ungrateful fathers. Ungrateful... How could them? How could they know? They wouldn’t know he’d eventually turn into something half-decent, worth of minimal recognition. He wouldn’t have that pitiful name no more. No. A imposing one. One that cause fear, was what he needed. Despite his height, whatever he looked like, one that imposed authority was what he needed. The first and only thing that came to his mind struck him and sticked to him. It stuck to him for sure. Morgoth. Yes. That was the one. He scrambled back up to his feet, gathering his packed goods and provisions and promptly setting off, back to the camp. All would hear of the Grubgoth’s name. All would hear of Morgoth’Raguk’s name. All would.
I write fast, don’t judge me.