The High Goblin's death was a predictable outcome. Hybrids, whether goblin-human or any other mix, were inherently unstable. Their bodies were a battlefield of conflicting genetics, a ticking clock counting down to inevitable failure. It didn't affect me. I was simply assigned a new task: raising the next strongest goblin hybrid. It was another experiment, another data point in my ongoing study of their society.
My true interest lay with the Orcs. They were less predictable than the goblins, more solitary, driven by primal instincts rather than organized strategy. Gaining their cooperation was a far more complex puzzle. I devised a plan, a carefully orchestrated chaos designed to sow discord between the two factions.
Women were the most readily available catalyst. I approached the younger females, those who still possessed a flicker of defiance in their eyes. I offered them a deal: collaboration in exchange for eventual freedom. My blank expression, my very humanity, lent me an air of detached objectivity. They believed me, trusted that I had no personal stake in their suffering.
The plan was simple. The women were to focus their attention exclusively on the goblins, offering them companionship and favors. The Orcs, naturally possessive and easily roused to jealousy, took the bait immediately. Whispers of perceived slights and stolen affections spread like wildfire through their ranks.
I then played the role of the concerned informant, subtly feeding the goblins information about the Orcs' growing resentment. I painted a picture of imminent attack, suggesting that a preemptive strike was their only option. The goblins, ever eager for a fight, took the bait.
The resulting clash was brutal, a chaotic melee of claw, fang, and crude weaponry. The forest floor became a tapestry of blood and gore. I watched from a safe distance, observing the ebb and flow of the battle, noting the strengths and weaknesses of each side. By morning, the carnage was complete. Few survived. The women were all dead, collateral damage in my carefully calculated game, except for one. She stood amidst the carnage, her eyes burning with a fierce hatred, promising to take my head.
I approached her, not with fear, but with an offer. "At the end of my goal," I said, my voice flat and emotionless, "you will take my life. Try not to die before then." A contract, sealed in blood and mutual understanding. She agreed.
The goblin child, the one I had raised, the one I now called "It," stood amidst the celebrating villagers. I stepped forward, my voice ringing out across the clearing. "This," I declared, gesturing to the creature, "will be your new leader."
The villagers erupted in anger. They saw It as a symbol of their oppression, a reminder of their enslavement. My remaining brother, hisface contorted with rage, accused me of being brainwashed. The villagers echoed his sentiment, shouting that they would never be slaves again.
"Fools," I said, my voice devoid of any emotion. I turned and walked away, leaving them to their misguided celebration. I knew that It, having been raised by me, would obey my every command. I also knew that if a human were to overtly take control, the Orcs would send reinforcements, crushing the nascent rebellion. But if the villagers played the part of a cooperative, subservient community, the Orcs would become complacent, their guard lowered.
The chaos I had orchestrated was not an end, but a means. It was a step in a much larger plan, a plan that would unfold with cold, calculated precision. My blank face, my apparent lack of emotion, was my greatest weapon. They saw emptiness where there was only strategy. They saw obedience where there was only manipulation. They saw a broken human, when in reality, they had created a monster far more dangerous than any Orc or goblin.