"Darkmoon Ridge (Chapter 3)" by James K. Bowers

    The High Murgg’s Dagger had been the property of the Urrg-Gratch tribe for more years than any goblin could count.  Normally this might mean anything greater than twenty-one but, in this case, it was a great deal more -- almost two centuries.  As all goblins are aware, it was taken as a prize of war from a dwarven infantry captain and the story of its capture remains the favorite of many.  Goblins never tire of tales of goblin prowess and bravery, especially those numerous tales featuring the detriment, demise, dismemberment, or death of dwarves.  The “Tale of the Dagger” was no exception, having no fewer than seventeen dwarven slayings, each described in stomach-churning detail.  Yes, the Dagger’s tale was far better than most goblin legends, never mind that the facts had long since been warped and twisted.  To relate the tale truthfully, it would now be necessary to replace “the dwarven captain and his patrol” with “the lone dwarven recruit”, and “Chuk-gruk” with “Chuk-gruk’s goblin platoon lying in ambush”.  The inaccuracies are numerous and blatant, of course, such as the exaggeration of Chuk-gruk’s individual heroism or the omission of Chuk-gruk’s platoon and it’s several casualties.  Indeed, if any scholar worth a farthing scrutinized the tale, he would probably be given to fits of uncontrollable laughter.  Between guffaws, he might attempt to explain that merely mentioning that the Dagger was made of the finest dwarven steel had satisfied all goblin laws regarding truth.  As always, though, he who wins writes the history book.  In any case, the Urrg-Gratch tribe now possessed this “legendary” weapon with which the High Murgg could conduct his various religious rituals and perhaps use to pick his teeth.
    Shraggnak, High Murgg of the Urrg-Gratch tribe, solemnly voiced the ancient words of the Gugg-n’Gugg’nar, Goblindom’s Ceremony of Spilled Blood.  For goblins, solemnity, too, was a relative thing.  Today, solemn and festive seemed to have taken on the same definition.  The blood-stained altar was Shraggnak’s stage and he was at his theatrical best.  His Dagger shone brightly as he waved it in the air above his head then brought it down using the required mock multiple-stabbing motion.
    Shraggnak had studied this ritual for countless hours -- had studied it since he was no larger than a skurl-rat -- and his back bore the scars of his study.  The Whip of Knowledge had been harsh, and more than eagerly applied each and every time he had faltered in his recitals.  Many years had passed since he had begun those studies and today he, Shraggnak, was the High Murgg.  His back was his proof, for only when one’s back bore no fresh marks from the Whip did one become a Lesser Murgg and thereby earn the right to bicker over possession of the Whip and Dagger.
    The High Murgg droned on, nearing the midpoint of the ritual.  Those who had little or no understanding of the ceremony had long since lost interest and were now snoring loudly.  Nonetheless, Shraggnak was quite certain they would be wide awake later for the “Sip-Some-Blood-To-Show-AaghNumph-It-Isn’t-Poisoned” segment of the ceremony, but that was at least an hour or so away.  At least the zealots and true believers were showing the common courtesy of quarreling noisily and showering Shraggnak with the appropriate amount of derision and insult.  Indeed, judging by the brutally profane insinuations regarding his ancestry, Shraggnak might just be the greatest High Murgg in Urrg-Gratch history.
    Appeasing the myriad gods of Goblindom was the never-ending and mostly thankless task of the High Murgg, though Shraggnak had always felt that any respite from the Whip of Knowledge should be thanks enough.  Shraggnak had found that most of the gods were rather easy to deal with, requiring little in the way of sacrifices and offerings.  AaghNumph, on the other hand, was notorious for causing cave-ins when he wasn’t offered enough blood.
    Satisfying AaghNumph would be much simpler if only he would settle for Goblin blood -- Shraggnak had plenty of Apprentice Murggs he could drain if that were the case.  Unfortunately, AaghNumph demanded surface-dweller blood.  And if Shraggnak couldn’t obtain the necessary blood for this ritual, Ha’Akch’Grupp the Most Exalted would certainly blame Shraggnak for any AaghNumph-inspired disasters within the royal caverns.  Ha’Akch’Grupp tended to become upset any time he had to replace dead goblin-lords, particularly any whose bodies were mashed to a messy pulp by cave-in rubble.  A worthwhile goblin-lord is, after all, much more difficult to come by than a cask of surface-dweller blood.
    The blood of these human warriors was certain to slake the great AaghNumph’s thirst for a while, maybe even until the First Thaw.  He would be distracted by this wonderful offering and, therefore, might forget to look harshly upon Ha’Akch’Grupp’s tribe.  If all went well, Shraggnak would then be able to avoid a terrible beating, though he probably deserved one in any case.
    Several more minutes of chanting brought Shraggnak to one of his favorite parts of the ritual -- “Present-The-High-Murgg’s-Bare-Rump”.  Shraggnak wished there were fewer snoozing worshippers, for this segment of the ceremony allowed him to show off.  In his opinion, he had perhaps one of the boniest posteriors in the tribe, accented by no fewer than eight hairy warts!  Yes, this was most assuredly the unparalleled highlight of the ceremony.  Shraggnak leaped upon the altar, still chanting the sacred praises to AaghNumph.  With a flourish, Shraggnak tugged his vestments up to his waist and proudly wagged his buttocks at the tribe.  At the sight of Shraggnak’s warty behind, a great howl echoed through the cavern.  The goblin zealots realized that “Sip-Some-Blood-To-Show-AaghNumph-It-Isn’t-Poisoned” was now only moments away.  Many had begun to crowd closer to the altar, drooling, hoping for a larger sip.
    The cask was nearly full of human blood, and the pungent-sweet odor of it gave Shraggnak a wonderful drunken feeling.  He chanted on, now dancing wildly atop the altar, circling the cask.  His steps became more energetic.  He leaped and pranced, waving his Dagger.  Shraggnak shouted the final praises to AaghNumph and used the Dagger to stir the blood.  He grunted and howled the Urrg-Gratch hymn as he dipped his ceremonial cup into the cask.
    Shraggnak raised the cup toward the cavern roof, then smiled broadly as he drank from it.  Shraggnak wisely retreated as the goblins crowded in to claim a “sip” of the blood.  The High Murgg drank the remaining blood from his cup.  He watched the zealots, true believers, and formerly sleeping goblins as they gnawed, clawed, and bullied their way to the cask -- sipping time was at its peak.  Shraggnak was pleased with the ceremony.  Still, he was somewhat puzzled about the claw marks on the bodies of the dead humans who had been so generous to the Urrg-Gratch cause...