The Tale of Ratbag the Warg Rider

Black Bile, Goblin Child
Raised from the Abyss
Switch and Whip, Tear and Grind
We are clans of Goblinkind

Slay all Men, the Elves and Dwarves
Our Horde shall always be
Arrayed on ground and Mountaintops
The enemy will flee

Break their backs with Fire Stones
Stretch their Limbs with Rope
If they oppose the Goblin Rule
Take from them their Hope

My name is Ratbag. My name comes a story the old nursery scull told me. As a gobling, I went after the

old bag of meal rats we were fed. Once, I snatched it from her hands and shook about with the burlap

until the squirming devils stopped thrashing. Among a hatching brood of 157 goblings, the name suits

its purpose.

From the nursery, I was thrown to hard labor at an early age like all goblin children. Hard back-breaking

labor weeds out the weaklings early for only the strongest can be fit to be warriors. I made my mark

early when I struck my taskmaster. He beat me hard with his whip one day. It filled me with rage, so I

pretended to be beaten. Once his back was turned, I took grip on my chipping iron and struck the old goat

on the back of his scalp. He crumpled to the ground like a child's toy. I could have stopped there, but I

beat the fool until my anger calmed to a whimper. They took his body away and fed it to the wargs. They

threw me his whip and said I was to be the new taskmaster. And then I learned the greatest lesson a

goblin can know: break another's skull and you'll move up the ranks.

I worked with the labor camps for a few years more in our White Mountain hovels when a new sort of Orc

arrived. They were tall, larger than the size of men and they were looking for willing recruits to raid

the lands south of White Mountains, the lands of men. I volunteered for I recognized in them war chiefs

worthy of my loyalty. And in time if I could kill one or all of them to take their place, so none the

worse.

We started with small parties raiding lonely farms, stealing animals to see if men would send their

soldiers to defend them. None came and so we grew bold. We raided a farm one evening and brought the

slaughter back to the chiefs. They were pleased, especially with the man flesh. For my effort they

rewarded me with a warg to join the proud riders of the great beasts.

We riders of wargs overrode the land, raiding where we could and pillaging southward into the land. No

men opposed us. Only weak farmers and women. We ground their bones into powder as we drove deeper into

men's land. I wondered how we orcs could be beaten back to the mountains time and again if men were so

weak and unprepared.

And the time for real glory came. We were told by our chief we were to raid a manor and we were to be

joined by another clan of troops. Together we would break the house and scatter its weak fools.

Our warg division was posted to the south of the manor to cut off and slay anyone escaping while the

ground troops assaulted the manor house and the other riders drove off their horses. We patrolled the

roads when our wargs caught the scent of men only they were coming from the south. Not that it mattered.

They would flee or die like the rest of the weak creatures.

We gathered our riders and let our wargs follow their stench until we caught sight of them. They were a

ragged bunch without mounts in a line walking towards us to their deaths. I had never seen such a

repulsive sight. We shouted our cry and charged intent on running them down.

Then there was a flash of light followed by a great crash. It happened right in the middle of us. The

noise spooked my warg. It took to its heels and bolted. I tried to rein it in, but it would not respond

to my commands. I turned to see my companions and their wargs slaughtered by the tattered travelers. I

muttered curses as the spooked warg rode hard and fast in the opposite direction.

Eventually, I gained control of the stupid beast and drove it back to our main camp. The chief was

displeased with our defeat. He struck the warg for its cowardice and hit me for abandoning my comrades.

If it weren't for the stolen horses we made off with, I may have been executed as an example for the rest

of them. I stayed in the battle camp until nightfall when we regrouped for another strike on the

manorhouse.

Burning with rage and eager for vengance. I and another warg rider rode to the entrance near to a stone

bridge waiting for a time to strike. We saw arrows fired from the house. When they hit the ground they

glowed with the fires of the noonday sun. Surely these persons had some powerful magics, but a mage's

belly can be cut as easily as anyone else's. One of our number ran into the clearing to grab the arrow,

but he was cut down by arrows fired from the manor. Another took his place and threw the annoying thing

into the river. It illuminated the river bottom as it floated out of sight.

Then a man, a very tall man, emerged from the burnt gate house. He knelt and set made a bridge stone glow

as did the arrow. The Sorcerer! Our best archers took aim but they could not strike him down with our

arrows.

I hit the rider next to me. He nodded and we spurred our beasts to chase him down. Charging, we chased

him fleeing back into the gatehouse and the yard that lay beyond. My mount caught up to him and ran him

to the ground. I raised my spear and drove it into his unprotected back. He screamed in pain. I raised

the spear again, but it was blocked by a man who had run out of the house to protect his fallen friend.

My warg struck to bite at the fallen man, but the other's shield blocked his snarling jaws.

I did not see what happened to my fellow rider. I only saw the helpless one beneath my warg. I raised my

spear for a strike he would not recover from.

Wow. Just.

Wow.

Did you write that Orkish poem yourself?

I am impressed.

Wow. Just.

Wow.

Did you write that Orkish poem yourself?

I take it that's a good wow. Hopefully.

Yep. That's how I spent last Sunday afternoon. Crafting a poem worth of the goblin ode from The Hobbit. Actually, the meter is a little off in places and I forgot to take out some of the capitalization on looking back at it.

I wonder. Did that goblin actually survive in the last game or did he get in the end? If he did, I'll probably have to shift characters.

Here is the character I drew inspiration from for this marvelous story. He can be encountered in the video game Lord of the Rings: The Shadow of Mordor. He's a scrawny orc-wimp who ends of climbing the ranks thanks to the main character who assassinates the war chiefs and leaves the glory to the pencil-neck orc.

Very nice story line. If I remember, he's still trying to whack at Vanimo. My combat turn will be coming up, so we'll see if he makes it or not. Stupid Vanimo...

Very nice story line. If I remember, he's still trying to whack at Vanimo. My combat turn will be coming up, so we'll see if he makes it or not. Stupid Vanimo...

Sadly, our protagonist is no more. He was caught in between our group and the other group of warg riders who ran him down. I suppose I'll write another narrative from the POV of another NPC we met and slaughtered because that's what we do.

The Son of Dior wrote:I suppose I'll write another narrative from the POV of another NPC we met and slaughtered because that's what we do.

Hey, it's a D&D module. If you're wondering whether or not to kill a non-friendly NPC you're overthinking the game.

Hey, it's a D&D module. If you're wondering whether or not to kill a non-friendly NPC you're overthinking the game. Wink

Of course, that goes without saying. But couldn't we, PC and NPC, just get along for once without needing to resort to die rolls?

Did you ever take your CPs for this entry?

It's 2 pages. Take 3 CPs.