Memoriae of The Minerva (Ilyandriel) Part 2

The hobgoblin adjusts her posture, slinging a leg over one arm of her throne and resting her elbow atop the other to lean her cheek against her fist. She actually has the audacity to look bored. Filthy creature.
“You wanted to talk to me?” She gestures down at herself with her free hand. “Here I am.”
You approach a step, only to be greeted by the rattle of weapons as the sea of goblins around you prepare to strike. Annoying, given how effortlessly you could dispatch the lot of them, but you’re not here to antagonize. So, you pretend to rethink the advance.
“I come to offer a trade, on behalf of a goddess.” You reply, dipping your head in the barest semblance of a bow.
Arching one dark eyebrow, the hobgoblin offers you a long, slow, utterly disinterested blink. “And what offer is that?”
It’s all you can do not to unleash a flurry of missiles and simply un-make this entire, pathetic little tribe but that’s not what you were sent here to do - and you’ve already learned your lesson about disappointing patron deities.
“A spell.” You reply, swallowing your contempt. “A ritual, really. To create hobgoblins.”
Your host shifts in her throne, lifting her head from her fist and leaning forward to rest both elbows on her knees intently. There. At least you have the disgusting creature’s attention now.
“I’ll need proof that this ritual actually works.” The chieftain makes a beckoning gesture with one hand. “But assuming it does, what do you want in exchange? I don’t imagine you’re here out of the kindness of your ‘goddess’’ heart.”
Damn. You’d expected this creature to be as stupid as all the others of her kind you’ve dealt with. What a waste of good cunning for it to be spent on such a loathsome monster as a hobgoblin with delusions of grandeur.
Straightening your posture, you reply simply, “Everything.”
“Everything?” The hobgoblin repeats the word, chuckling to herself. “Not very specific.”
“Your fealty. Your tribe. Your life.” You reply, a sneer curling up one corner of your lips. You can’t be bothered to hide it. Producing a glass memoriae pendant from within your cloak you toss it underhand towards the chieftain, punctuating the gesture with a single word. “Everything.”
The hobgoblin snatches the pendant out of the air, examining it closely for a moment before closing her fist around it and announcing with a vulpine smirk, “I believe we have an accord.”