Koblyn the Dirt-Hackers
I came into this world as a slave, born into the shackles that bound my parents, and their parents before them. It was an existence of servitude, where joy and respite were scarce commodities. My family and I were among the Koblyn, a group of goblin slaves owned by the Hoblyn, known as Hob Goblins in the common tongue.
Our lives were dictated by the whims of our masters. They assigned us tasks they deemed beneath their status—farming, gathering resources—things they claimed were merely the natural order of things. They preached that the strong ruled over the weak, and that it was our nature to be slaves, never warriors, never worthy of our shared ancestors' mighty Goblyn lineage.
In the camp, there were others like us, fellow slaves of the Hoblyn. They categorized everyone as either strong enough to be free or weak and destined for a life of servitude. Even the free goblins were told to obey their supposed betters, as it was ingrained in the Hoblyn's worldview. Some of us, those whose spirits had not been completely shattered by their cruel words or the lashes of the cat o' nine tails, dared to dream of a different reality.
When the majority of the tribe was away raiding settlements, fighting rival goblin tribes, or clashing with orcs and giants over matters of pride or greed, we would gather in secret. In those fleeting moments, we would tell stories, nourishing a flicker of hope that there was more to life than being downtrodden by our own kin. Not that any of us possessed the courage to rise against them. The Hoblyn were bred for war, their broad shoulders, powerful limbs, and eagerness to inflict pain making them formidable adversaries.
It was a peculiar realization, but I found myself feeling a greater sympathy for the non-goblin slaves in our midst. The Hoblyn seemed to reserve even more hatred for them than they did for us. It was as if their capacity for nurturing and fostering hate surpassed that of hope or love. Everything about their values and beliefs felt twisted and erroneous to me.
Initially, I clung to the hope that the Hoblyn were the outliers, the monsters wallowing in a culture of cruelty and animosity. I wanted to believe that my people, the Koblyn, were the ones who didn't quite fit within the wider goblin society. But as time passed, I came to realize the painful truth—that it was our peaceful and cooperative nature that made us the misfits among our own kind.
The goblin society, as a whole, embraced aggression, dominance, and the subjugation of others. It seemed to be an inherent part of their culture. Our aversion to violence and our desire for a different way of life made us the odd ones out. We were seen as weak, feeble, and unworthy in their eyes.
As I encountered the Boglyn and Gobalus, the other goblin races in our world, it became even more apparent how different we were from them. The Boglyn stood tall, towering over any goblin I had ever laid eyes upon. Their bodies were covered in thick, matted fur, and they were built with dense muscles that emphasized their intimidating presence. They scarred me more then the Hoblyn ever could, they made me feel so small and puny, weak just with their physical presence.
However, it wasn't just their appearance that set them apart. The Boglyn were living nightmares, thriving on fear and reveling in the art of haunting, murder, and spreading terror. It was as if fear itself was a drug they craved, a source of sustenance for their dark souls. Their very existence seemed bound to inflicting horror upon others, and the mere thought of encountering them filled my heart with dread.
On the other hand, the Gobalus were small in stature but overflowing with manic energy. At first, I had hoped they might be more akin to us, but my hopes were quickly shattered. The Gobalus seemed utterly devoid of care for the death or harm that befell anyone but themselves. They gleefully tormented and bullied anyone they could get away with, venting their sadism without a hint of remorse. Their actions were driven by a twisted pleasure in causing pain and suffering, leaving a trail of victims in their wake.
As I listened to stories of the other goblin races, a sense of unease settled within me. Each tale seemed to reinforce the notion that we, the Koblyn, were fundamentally different, as if we were a separate creation, flawed and broken compared to the rest. The stories of our ancient ancestors, the high Goblyns, only intensified this feeling.
The high Goblyns were once the rulers of a vast underground empire, commanding legions of slaves. Their power was unquestionable, and even the Dwarves and Elves trembled in their presence. It was a history that spoke of dominance and subjugation, a legacy of power built upon the backs of others. Before them, the first goblins, the Gobelin, emerged. These Fey Goblins were cunning merchants and tricksters, notorious for cheating and deceiving people at their peculiar goblin markets.
With each tale, my hope dwindled, and a growing sense of despair settled in my heart. It seemed that being a goblin was inherently tied to negativity and wrongdoing. The stories of power and control, of deceit and trickery, cast a shadow over our kind. It was difficult to see any good that could come from being a goblin, as the narratives painted us as beings consumed by darkness and driven by self-serving motives.
The Hoblyn priests would indoctrinate us with their beliefs, asserting that every goblin had once been a Goblyn, and our existence was a result of the failures of the weak and wretched races such as dwarves, despicable elves, cowardly gnomes, and halflings. They claimed that the Goblyn lords had been torn asunder, and from that tearing, the various goblin races were born. According to them, the Hoblyn were meant to rule, and the rest of us served under their dominion, each with our designated roles and specialties.
They would tell us that even we, the Koblyn, had a purpose, and as goblins, we were superior to our enemy races. But I couldn't help but question their assertions. Being a favored slave was still being a slave, after all. Their words may have tried to paint a picture of importance and worth, but deep down, I couldn't shake the truth that we were still held captive, our lives dictated by those who saw themselves as our masters.
Their attempt to justify the inequalities and injustices of our society by instilling a sense of superiority over other races rang hollow to me. It was an ideology built upon prejudice and discrimination, using the concept of Goblyn ancestry as a means to justify their rule and our servitude. I couldn't find solace in their words or reconcile the inherent contradiction between their claims of superiority and our status as slaves.
Freedom came to us unexpectedly when the Hoblyn warlords launched an ill-fated attack on a dwarven stronghold. They had underestimated their opponents, and the repercussions were dire. Only a handful of Hoblyn returned, and they were a pitiful sight. The Dwarven army had stood firm, their unyielding wall of iron proving too formidable for the Hoblyn to break through.
I confess, a part of me—a small, mischievous goblin part—found a twisted delight in witnessing the suffering of my tormentors and their wounded pride. After enduring years of servitude and oppression, seeing the Hoblyn's arrogance shattered brought a strange sense of satisfaction. It was as if the tables had turned, and for once, they were the ones who tasted the bitterness of defeat.
However, amidst my fleeting satisfaction, a sense of unease and doubt gnawed at me. I knew that I was no fighter, no hero. I had always been a slave, a humble farmer whose hands were meant for tilling the soil and nurturing plants. In the face of such adversity, I questioned whether I possessed the strength and determination to forge my own path to freedom. It frightened me to think that perhaps we goblins were cursed, destined to struggle in our pursuit of free will.
I stand corrected in my previous despair, for I soon learned the error of my depressing thoughts. It was during the slave revolts that my perspective shifted entirely. To my astonishment, it was my own parents who led the rebellion. I had been too young to be informed of their plans, but as I later discovered, it was the Koblyn who had clandestinely manipulated the information of the Hoblyn scouts, secretly aiding the dwarves in their preparations to counter the Hoblyn attack. All those years, I had wrongly believed my family and I were worthless, weak, and incapable of earning our freedom. Little did I know that beneath our perceived insignificance, a hidden strength and resilience had been cultivated.
The stories passed down through generations held hidden messages to our secret allies. The dances we performed around the fire served as codes for training our bodies and minds, honing our strength and skill in preparation for the day we would rise up. The tools we used in our daily labor became the weapons of our salvation.
Though I was too young to participate directly in the fight, the Hoblyn, blinded by their arrogance, proved no match for our united rebellion. We, the enslaved goblins, rose up against our oppressors and unleashed generations of pent-up anguish and suffering upon them. The retribution we exacted was swift and fierce.
In that pivotal moment, I realized the immense power that lay within us. We had endured the chains of servitude, but our spirits remained unbroken. From the depths of our perceived weakness, we forged strength, unity, and a fierce determination to reclaim our dignity and freedom.
The victory we achieved that day forever shattered the notion that Koblyn were destined to be mere pawns in the schemes of others. We had proven our worth, not through the strength of our physical might alone, but through our resilience, resourcefulness, and the unwavering spirit of defiance that pulsed within our hearts.
From that day forward, I refused to see we Koblyn as weak or broken. We emerged the heroes of our own story. Our revolt had rewritten the narrative, casting aside the notion that we were cursed to be forever subjugated. We had taken control of our destiny and reclaimed our right to determine our own path.
So when you ask why I am an adventurer, why I risk the world of people who look at me with revulsion, fear and disdain because of my kith and kin it is because I know that the in the end actions mean more then words, that courage is stronger then fear and that hope must never be forsaken!
-Kazidurt Loztenmhud Kobelyn Paladin and champion of the downtrodden.
Naming Traditions
Family names
Loztenmhud, Mukbello, Zhornhyde, Dhirtmauncher, Rhootfoot, Pricklepicker, Sthonebusta
Other names
Most Koblyn are not granted names by their taskmasters, those who oppress them. Their identities are deliberately by other erased by the traditions of other goblinoids, reducing them to faceless entities. However, the act of choosing a name for themselves becomes a pivotal and liberating moment—a vital first step on their path toward freedom. By claiming their own names, they reclaim their individuality and assert their right to self-determination. This act signifies a powerful rebellion against the cruelty inflicted upon them, an affirmation that they are more than mere property or slaves. Choosing their own names becomes a symbol of resistance and marks the beginning of their journey to break free from the chains of oppression.
Encompassed species
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