Although captured, the Savage Goblin wasn’t as cowardly as Ironhead Goblins.
Ordinary Goblins fold after one punch.
This one glared at Marcus, warpaint smeared, and refused to speak.
Marcus was already in a bad mood.
Four Goblins dead today to the bear, one maimed.
He had no patience.
“Damn, dis one got guts,”
“Krump him!
Not to death!
Just enough so his mouth works better than his fists!”
For greenskins, this is not inappropriate.
This is diplomacy.
You don’t convince a Savage Orc with words.
You convince him by proving you’re bigger.
The Goblin mob swarmed, punching and kicking.
Clearly, the Savage Goblin’s body wasn’t as tough as his mouth.
After thirty seconds of proper Ork negotiation, he started begging.
Marcus stopped them.
He even saw several Goblins wielding sticks, mimicking his earlier “Big Chop” and poking the Savage Goblin’s backside, chanting move names.
Marcus’s green face turned even greener from embarrassment.
He secretly decided to never shout move names again.
Too shameful.
After chasing Goblins aside, he saw the Savage Goblin was half-naked – his leaf clothes torn in the brawl.
He looked miserable, bruised, but still alive.
Marcus’s anger cooled a bit.
No rush to interrogate now.
The bear carcass stank and could attract wolves or worse.
Staying in the forest wasn’t safe, not because Greenskins fear beasts, but because they can’t afford casualties.
Resources limited.
He had Goblins gag the Savage Goblin with a hide strip – not to torture, to stop him biting – and focus on butchering the bear.
He searched the Goblin’s belongings: a simple self-bow made of springy branches and vine, a few wooden arrows with bone points, and a small animal skin bag with only forest nuts.
That bow caught his attention.
Savage Orcs are supposed to hate ranged weapons, but Savage Goblins often make crude bows.
This one looked well-made, better than Ironhead’s.
He pocketed it.
He could ask back at tribe.
Once Goblins finished dismembering the bear – quarters on poles, hide rolled, head in a basket – the whole mob carried and dragged the day’s spoils back, plus the Savage Goblin tied to a spear like a boar, plus the bodies of the four dead Goblins.
At this point no one cared about the one-armed Goblin.
Fortunately, Greenskin physiology is freakish.
The bleeding had stopped on its own, the wound already clotting, and the guy was actually helping carry a big chunk of bear meat on his good shoulder.
Orks don’t die of blood loss easily unless it’s massive.
Marcus planned to transfer him to mushroom fields after this – lighter work.
His human heart wasn’t fully green yet; he couldn’t let contributors bleed and weep.
They returned in grand procession.
The giant bear was a mountain of muscle, enough meat for two days.
Marcus ordered a feast again tonight – bear meat and mushrooms.
He sent the one-armed Goblin to the mushroom fields with an iron knife looted from Skaven, giving him an honorable retirement from hunting.
Once the mob dispersed to cook, Marcus ripped the hide gag out of the Savage Goblin’s mouth and repeated his questions.
To his surprise, the Savage Goblin, having recovered on the walk, started spewing profanity and spitting, acting tough again.
Enraged, Marcus punched him once, sending him rolling a meter, curling like a shrimp.
He didn’t keep punching.
He waited.
Let him get up.
As the Goblin slowly got up, Marcus kicked his legs out, knocking him over again.
He was teaching, not killing.
Other Goblins around watched, thinking their boss was incredibly powerful – which, for Orks, is the same as incredibly right.
After three rounds, the Savage Goblin finally gave in.
He felt like he was going to see Gork and Mork for real.
Seeing him submit, Marcus stopped.
That’s how it works.
Greenskins who don’t submit get beaten until they do.
Once they submit, you stop, because now they’re your boyz.
Marcus stood over him, foot pinning him lightly, and spat to the side – an Orky cool pose.
Goblins watching cheered.
“Heh.
Dare to play dumb with me?
Lucky you still got teef.”
“Tell me.
Where you from, why on my turf?”
The Savage Goblin curled up, coughing.
“I’m from eastern mountains!
Our boss sent me to scout!
Our tribe very powerful!
You better let me go, or my boss will smash your head!”
Threat added.
“Holy crap, is this what they call Savage Greenskin?
Even Goblin dis tough,” Marcus muttered, and gave him another slap, not a beating – just enough to remind who was biggest.
He couldn’t stop after one, but this time he used words between slaps, breaking him down properly.
The poor Goblin cowered, covering head, begging, spilling a jumble of information, useful and useless.
Marcus used a classic interrogation trick: ask same question from different angles, come back to old questions suddenly.
If answers change, he’s lying.
If he can’t answer, he’s making it up.
Through this, he squeezed the Savage Goblin dry.
They were a tribe called the **Broken Tusk Tribe**, not Araki Clan – that was his mishearing of Goblin accent.
According to this Goblin, Broken Tusk used to be a powerful force in the **Eastern Badlands**, tough enough to beat Skaven and Beastmen warbands.
They lived in caves in the mountains east of Ironhead valley, maybe two days’ walk.
They had about 200 Goblins, 40 Orcs, a dozen Boar Boyz, and a Savage Orc Shaman.
They were not huge, but compared to Ironhead’s 1 Orc and 400 Goblins, they were a superpower.
Their boss was a big Savage Orc named **Gorfang Tusksnappa**, who wore only warpaint and a giant squig-hide.
Their tribe was smashed two weeks ago – not by Beastmen, but by **pink-skins** – humans?
No, he described short pink-skins with big hats and guns.
That sounded like **Chaos Dwarfs** doing a slave raid, or maybe Border Prince mercenaries.
Broken Tusk scattered.
This Goblin, named **Gitzit**, was sent as a scout to find a new valley to resettle.
Half an hour passed by the time he finished, clearly explaining where he came from, where he was going, location of his tribe’s old caves, and even his birth mushroom patch.
Marcus listened, thinking fast.
A tribe of 200 Goblins and 40 Orcs shattered nearby means a lot of stray Greenskins wandering.
That’s recruits – or spores for his fungus fields if they refuse.
It also means whatever smashed them might come here next.
And that bow he had – Savage Goblin bows, made from the resilient **Bloodthorn** trees in the eastern mountains, were better than Ironhead’s.
If he could get that wood, his archers would double their range.
He looked at Gitzit, who was now obedient, sitting up.
“You did good.
You join Ironhead now.
You show us where Broken Tusk caves are, where Bloodthorn trees grow.
You do well, you get meat, you get to keep your teef.”
Gitzit nodded frantically.
For a Goblin, being beaten then offered food and protection by a bigger boss is not betrayal, it’s promotion.
Marcus untied him and gave him a bowl of bear soup.
The Savage Goblin, now Ironhead Goblin, started eating like a starved Squig.
Marcus looked east, towards the mountains where Broken Tusk used to live.
Opportunity and danger, both.
Tomorrow, exploration.