“What thing could possibly be better than maraud?” Grok had tried in vain to forget about that dreadful question for a long time, but it always came to his mind before the raids.
Winter time was the traditional season to raid the Gnome villages at the foot of the Twisted Beak Mountains. You could even think that even the Gnomes enjoyed it, as they usually were caught unprepared and inviting. So, for the Goblin tribes, that part of the year was filled with of all the fun and joy that those traditions brought. Hanging gnomes by their beards… Warming your hands over a burning hut… You know, the simple pleasures of life.
But Grok wasn’t so sure about that. Since he was as small as a snot, the only thing that he could think of was dancing, even if he always had kept that desire for himself. He belonged to a long lineage of warriors that traced their origins to Rurk Looseteeth, the legendary founder of the Cross-Eyed Ram tribe so, when he asked to his father “Dad, what career options are there, besides maraud?”, his response made clear that the tribe would not welcome his fancy inclinations.
He was thoughtfully trying the edge of his pole arm, considering all these things, when he heard the first alarm cries from the Gnome villagers… They knew they were there.
“Back to reality”, he thought. He adjusted the helmet visor and shouted a spine-chilling war cry to rally his warriors. Time to work…