Little Scut gets a new name, a new "mom", and a new, if clumsy, "big brother". Wraithvine helps them pack up camp and watches over the family, and one has to wonder what ze's thinking, and feeling, knowing the small creature ze rescued now has a loving family, thanks to hir.
@internutter/challenge-03149-h240-motivation-inclination -- Anon Guest
[AN: Fixed the pronouns up there. Wraithvine is a ze/hir just like your humble author. I called hir 'him' in one fiction, and that was from the perspective of an antagonist. (mutters: I'm never gonna live that down...)]
Picture if you will, life from the perspective of a Goblin. Your destiny is to end in a brief and crunchy squeak. If you are lucky, some Hobgoblin or Bugbear will fund your meals until they use you as cannon fodder and you fall under some Adventurer's blade.
It's not a life made for optimism. Paranoia, yes. Terror, definitely. Pessimism for certain. There are very few bright futures for a Goblin. They don't bother with long and fancy names. Something quick and efficient and, if possible, monosyllabic. So it can be shouted in warning in a hurry. For Scut, the adventurers caring for her welfare are a brand new phenomenon. She is certain it's going to end badly.
Scut watches anything sharp with evident trepidation. The knitting needles in Ma Oxbrydl's hands. The sharp point of every arrow in Kevin Oxbrydl's bow. Right now, she was watching the paring knife in Wraithvine's nimble fingers.
Ma Oxbrydl was finishing a project. The needle was mostly hidden in her meaty hands, but Scut twitched towards its glint every time.
"No need to be nervous, little one," said Ma. "I won't ever stick you."
"Scut having reasons. Good reasons."
"Do you want a different name?" asked Ma, extravagantly careful with her needle. "Scut's what they call a rabbit's tail. Neither use nor ornament, some say."
"Useful to rabbit," said Scut. "Help jump. Help be fast. Scut is good name."
"You could be so many better things. You could have so many better names. Fast names, poetic names. Higher names."
Wraithvine finished paring hir fruit and started sectioning it. "Goblins and Kobolds like short names. It helps them stay alive when they're in danger. And they're often in danger."
"There ain't many high short names," allowed Ma. She put the needle behind her ear and tested her work. "High folk like as many syllables as possible. Then they go around calling each other Pongo or Missa or suchlike."
"Perhaps a name to strike terror in your enemies," suggested Wraithvine. "Like Kris or Sabre. Bane, Blight, Venin... Edge or Shank or Shiv... there's a lot of choices."
Scut nervously held up a hand. "May I be Venin? It sounds pretty."
"It does. And you can shorten it to Ven when we're in a hurry." She checked on Kevin, sleeping soundly nearby. Ma Oxbrydl returned the needle to its place and offered a multi-coloured abomination of a coat to the Goblin. "You're shivering all the time. This should help you stay warm."
"You... You make for Scu-- for Venin?"
"Of course. You're small and a long way from anyone else friendly. You need somebody. And I volunteered. You can even call me Ma if you like."
The coat was warmer than it should have been, and extremely comfortable. The newly-minted Venin found herself without many reasons to tremble any more. "...'nk you," she said, and risked, "Ma?"
Ma Oxbrydl chuckled and swept Venin up in her arms. "There's my girl."
Wraithvine smiled. "Found family speed run," ze offered some of hir fruit to those who were awake. "Don't fight it, Miss Venin. You're doomed to have a protector and nurturer on your side."
Venin, for the record, was already starting to enjoy it.
[Image (c) Can Stock Photo / zigzagmtart]
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