I do not understand the small ones. They are soft in body, chaotic in manner, and speak like goblins who have overdosed on bloodroot mead. Yet here they are—Booger and Burnout—sitting cross-legged on Olivia’s rug, each nursing a foul-smelling can of “Monster Energy” like it’s some sacred tonic. Their fingers are stained with orange dust from something called “Flamin’ Hot Doritos,” and their eyes gleam with unholy glee as they pepper me with questions.
“Okay, but like, if you had to pick,” Booger says, jabbing his finger at me. “Would you rather go toe to toe with a Balrog or fight, like, fifteen Chuck Norrises?”
“What is a Balrog?” I ask.
“It’s a big fire demon.”
“Then I would kill it.”
“And Chuck Norris?”
“I do not know this Norris, but if he bleeds, he dies.”
They both burst into laughter, hooting like hyenas.
Burnout raises his can. “Dude, you’re the most metal thing to ever walk this town.”
“You honor me,” I say solemnly.
“Swear to God,” Booger says, holding up two orange-dusted fingers, “we won’t say a word. No videos. No posts. This is like, sacred.”
Burnout nods. “We’re gonna protect your identity like it’s Batman’s.”
“I do not know this Bat Man,” I reply, “but if he stands with honor, then we are brothers.”
“DUDE!”
They are absurd. But they are loyal, in their own crude way.
I watch them, studying the sharpness of their banter, the easy speed of their deception. Goblin-spirited, yes. Tricksters. But not malicious. They offer no tribute, no coin, no promises of power. Only silence… in exchange for tales of steel and song, and their foul elixirs.
Strange allies.
But acceptable.
Later, after the goblin youths have slithered back to their lairs with promises to “text” and “DM memes,” Olivia stands in front of me with a pile of folded cloth.
“Okay. Time for you to look less like a barbarian and more like someone who doesn’t get tased on sight.”
I raise an eyebrow. “I am not a barbarian.”
“You’re shirtless and carrying a spear.”
“My people would find thisunder-dressed.”
“Well,mypeople call that ‘probable cause.’ Arms up.”
She throws a shirt—tight, black, and clearly not made for someone of my proportions—over my head. I try to wrestle it on but it catches on my tusks, nearly ripping. The trousers aren’t better—stiff, constricting denim that binds my legs like a trap.
“This isnotbattle attire,” I growl, yanking the shirt off again. “I can’t move in this. I’ll die wearing this.”
“No one’s asking you to breakdance in it. You just need to not draw attention.”
I look at myself in the hallway mirror again, a scowling green bulk stuffed into human clothes like a boar in wedding garb. “This will not do.”
She throws up her hands. “Fine! Then do your thing. Orc magic. Orc glamour. Whatever you used to kiss-translate me into knowing your language.”
I blink. Then smirk.
