The scuffle and the twin screams that followed were enough to draw the crowds attention. To a normal goblin the fight that was beginning to break out was a useless one, an undertaking they themselves would have never participated in. The larger, and better armed, goblin had gotten the drop upon their chosen foe. The stick still dripping with spilled blood was evidence enough of that. The prize for the fight was too low, too inconsequential, to spill any more. Those that watched from the firelight, their eyes resembling spotlights as the flickering flames gave them more than enough to see with, knew that the fight was already over before it had even truly began. It would be stupid to continue. But as their minds caught up to the nights entertainment unfolding before them, they recognized the offenders. Excitement began to grow in their expressions. Cruel grins with gnarled and yellowed teeth filling the air with laughter.

Before Runt could even stumble to his feet, bets were being made. Stored food and prized trinkets were dragged out of hiding as a cheers began to erupt. The bets varied in both their nature and their weight. Some believed in the underdog, sure that Runt had a trick or two under his sleeve, for why else would he fight now? Others bet on whether Runt would come out of it alive. A half eaten roll of bread was offered in exchange for a bit of mold covered cheese. A bet made over how many teeth Runt would lose that evening.

Still others idled by the edges of the fire, wanton greed lighting up their features. Eyeing the two. Weighing their own chances were they to join the fray. Was there anything on the line that they wanted? Any rivalries that could be pounced upon? A chance that could be snatched up in that moment? Even as trinkets were taken out to be used as betting chips, even more were being stolen. The distraction enough for a handful of enterprising individuals to exercise their sticky fingers. A further two fights broke out in the seconds afterwards. Would be thieves caught before they could scurry away, their marks slashing at them with improvised weapons a second later. A flurry of motion scattered the crowd as whoops began to fill the air, silencing the wild animals within earshot. A goblin camp with that much commotion was never a good sign for any living creature within reach.

In all his years alive there was a lesson that Runt had never quite learned, and those betting on his loss knew him well enough to recognize that. A lesson that every goblin around him had once tried to teach him. Something his nature abjectly refused to accept, but that others did easily. Of all his failings, this was perhaps his greatest. The refusal, against all odds, to give up. Goblins did not survive by being stubborn. They survived by picking their fights wisely. Avoiding bloodshed at all costs, knowing that every drop spent was a drop unable to be used later. But this was something Runt could not do. He could not just let things lie. He knew he should have just walked away. Let the scrap go, and look for another food source elsewhere. But he couldn’t. Every time he attempted to, every time his thoughts strayed to that path of action, he bucked against that instinct. For someone at the lowest rung of society, Runt’s pride was his downfall. It wasn’t even truly about the scrap. He would still be starving whether or not he kept it. No, it was about the message that it sent. A message he refused to give up on. That taking from him, that stealing or intimidating him, was rarely worth it. He knew out of the assembled goblins he was close to being the weakest. But he put hope in the idea that the snarling mouse was harder prey to take advantage of than the cowering lion.

“Mine!” he screamed, gesturing with one curled finger at the goblin standing above him. Pain was forgotten as he pulled himself to his feet, muck dirtied rags dripping as he snarled. Shaking himself like a rabid animal he stood as tall as he could. Barely making it up to an average mans thigh his height was the opposite of imposing. To the one standing on top of the boulder before him, it was entirely laughable. Cruel jeers rang out from the crowd. Those that bet on him yelling foul mouthed encouragement, while those who bet against his odds doing the opposite.

“Give it up!” was repeated by a dozen mouths, swamp mud tossed his way before he could even settle his feet. He could feel and hear the smack of half a dozen clods of earth hitting their mark. Dirtying his already stained clothes beyond repair. One enterprising goblin included a jagged edge of rock in their projectile. The stone scraping against Runt’s skin as he smashed into his right arm, a yelp of pain drawing out a wave of laughter from the watching crowd. Bloodthirsty eyes stared into his glaring ones as he turned to find the perpetrator, only for the goblin behind him to take the offered chance almost immediately.

If it wasn’t for the joy suddenly lighting up in the crowds face Runt wouldn’t have been able to react quickly enough. Even as it was his clumsy dodge to one side didn’t prevent the full weight of the crude club slamming into his side. With a howl of pain he rolled away, fingers clawing at the mud beneath him to propel him forwards. He could feel the clawed nails on one his hands chipping as he dug his fingers through dirt, but was able to use the leverage to pull himself away not a moment too soon.

Another squelch rang out into the night as the club slammed into the spot where his crawling head had been moments before. “No, it’s Stanks!” screamed it’s wielder, eyes bloodshot as he chased after Runt on skinny half starved legs. Bread was forgotten as the two dodged around the small ring that had formed around them. Stank running after a half crawling, half scrambling Runt, not giving the younger goblin even a moment to right himself. Every time Runt thought he had a moment to pull himself to his feet, the club would slam against one of his outstretched limbs. Runt could feel every blow against his flesh in vivid detail. Every bruise that began to form on his legs, back and arms. He couldn’t find his balance and Stank was not above capitalizing on that.

There were no fair duels in goblin society. Every combatant went into every fight knowing that they had to use the tools that they had available to them. Every weapon could and should be used for their maximum effect. Mercy and kindness was not a luxury either Stank or Runt could afford in that moment. Which was why when bruised and battered Runt stumbled and slumped into the mud pooling below him, Stank kept up the offensive. To do anything else was inviting Runt to react, and Stank, even though he had the upper hand, couldn’t let the young goblin do so. One swing of the club cracked against the Runt’s back, the sound and the pain that followed forcing him to let out a cry of pain. A second or two later another blow swiftly followed, smashing itself against one of Runt’s hand, the creak of bone signalling the damage that blow had wrought.

Pain seared every nerve that Runt had. It drove it’s way up his battered spine, the thin fabric of his rags doing nothing to protect him as blow after blow began to rain down towards him. He was waiting for a moment he wasn’t even sure would come. A plan forming in his mind as he had crawled about, only for him to realize now that he may not have the time to enact it. The pain driving itself into his system might rob him of his senses before he could act upon any chance he had been given. He didn’t even dare to lift his head to look at Stank, for that would be giving the other goblin another weak point to exploit. Runt was barely holding on now that the blows steadily slammed against his back, a club to his face would doom him.

Eventually the moment he was waiting for would arrive. The barest shred of his willpower holding on to this very moment. There was a pause in the blows against his back and limbs. Whether that pause was due to Stank lifting the club over his head for a final blow against the base of Runt’s skull, or the goblin finally relenting after a well earned victory, Runt couldn’t take the moment to ponder. Instead he acted.

Using the last bit of his strength he held on to, he rolled suddenly to one side, arms gathering as much muck as he could in one dragged out motion. A second later he laid on his back, his arms shooting out to throw as much of the gathered gunk in his fingers as he could. Mud flew through the air as he cast his arms forward. Stank let out a loud annoyed noise as he stepped back, arms already moving to wipe away the grime. The mud had slapped Stank directly in the face. Effectively blinding the goblin as it splattered across his features.

Runt did not give him the chance to clean himself, the young goblin already moving even before the mud had finished sailing through the air. He lifted his wounded body as high as he could manage, frame shaking with pain as he wobbled to his feet. For a moment he stood tall. Body wavering from side to side in the faintest hints of fetid wind that passed through their swampy camp. The club had done its damage, and it was through sheer force of will that Runt found that he could even stand at all.

The crowd around him cheered and allowed their voices to be carried off deep into the night that surrounded them. Many who had turned to witness the other fights shifted their gaze back after the commotion made itself known. Runt’s comeback, the sly move he had pulled had certainly won him fans within those watching him. Though their mood was fickle, and the goading words that were spat out moments later only served to further tire him.

His fist slowly raised, muddy green skin clenched into a tight ball of muscle. A ball that he thrust forwards a second later, cracking against Stank’s cheek as flesh met flesh. The older goblin snarled and stumbled a few steps backwards, hands furiously working to free his eyes from the much that clouded them. A one handed wild swing went wide as Runt stepped to one side, stumbling and sliding on the slippery footing underneath them both. Another punch was launched, followed by a second a moment later. Each one hitting home against the body before him, sickening thumps sounding out among the screaming goblins that surrounded them. Runt alternated his blows whenever he could. Pummelling the half blind goblin in front of him with the same amount of mercy Stank had shown him. Some blows rang against the goblin’s skull, and when Stank lifted his arms to defend that, fists met his stomach instead.

A battle cry leapt from Runt’s lips as he put everything he had into those blows. Hands with bones that shifted under each blow, bruises that screamed at him with every movement, and the half fuzzed vision clouding his vision did nothing to stop him. In his rage, in the victory that surged through him, he forgot the crowd that surrounded him. His vision and his attention focused towards the rapid tiring of his own body, and the weakening goblin he rained his blows against. For the first time in his life, he was winning one of these fights. He was making a visible dent.

As was the nature of his kind, that hope was robbed from him before he had even thought of the possibility. The goblins around the circle did what they did best, and took advantage of the situation unfolding out before them. Predators eyes gazed at the two combatants, eager grins crossing malicious faces. Runt’s first clue that they had turned against him was another heavy blow to the back of his head. This time with enough force, with enough muscle, that his eyes instantly felt the world shrink to nothing.

“Cheater!”, yelled another in the crowd, reacting to the blow that sent Runt to the ground, the small goblin landing among the muck, his breath faltering as the mud began to fill his mouth. Face sinking deeper and deeper within the gunk that made up the floor of the goblin encampment.

“Nuh uh,” another voice retorted, “Bet was that the small one would be knocked out, I never said it had to be stink breath who fuckin’ did it.”

“You swamp suckin’, frog slurping, no good-” snarled the other, another brawl starting before the first could meet it’s end.

Not that Stank noticed. All the goblin’s brain comprehended was that Runt had stopped pummelling him, and that his body was a solid ball of pain. Spittle dropped from his mouth as he raised one unshod foot, slamming it down upon the prone body of Runt a moment later. Rage filled his eyes as he stomped, over and over again, sounds of the wider camp buzzing in his ears. Bruises getting worse by the second as he strained himself past the point of breaking.

Runt felt each blow like it was a thousand miles away. Every kick jerking his body and shoving him deeper into the mud, his mouth filling with the foul tasting slush. His eyes could only see stars, the rest of his vision reduced the smallest of points. Pinpricks of light filling up the darkness, slowly drifting through the space around him. Millions of dust motes collecting into small little gatherings. Drifting along currents that his eyes struggled to make sense of. Eventually the kicks melted away, the pain long forgotten as the forms surrounding Runt began to swirl and twist around his prone form. He lost consciousness a moment later, the tiniest of motes drifting into his eyes. Setting his soul aflame before the darkness creeping in blissfully blocked out all sensation.