The blow came from nowhere.
“Stupid Borrki.”
Another fist slammed into the side of her head, causing stars to erupt in the darkness around her.
“Stupid, stupid girl.”
A knee to the guts brought her to her knees.
“When will you learn?”
She pressed her hands to the ground and stood shakily, scrabbling at the cloth someone had wrapped around her head moments before the first strike.
“No.” Someone, Gerk from the sound of the voice, slapped her hands down. “If you like them so much, you can be as blind as they are in our cave, among the rubbish where you belong.”
Two hands shoved her in the back and she fell forwards, hissing in pain as the broken rocks of the floor cut deep gashes in her forearms.
“Next time, we won’t be as nice.” Gerk said, prompting a wave of high-pitched laughter from all around her.
She lay there on the cold, damp floor of the goblin’s refuse cave as the sound of footsteps gradually retreated and wondered, not for the first time, why her clan were so petty and small minded. There was a whole world of shiny things, and blind people, out there, ripe for the taking. Why were they so happy to stay in here, with their rotting food and mouldering rags, content to survive on what they could steal from travellers?
She hissed in pain again as she pushed herself to her feet, warm blood dripping from the wounds in her forearms.
Maybe the problem was her. Maybe she was the one in the wrong. No-one else wanted to leave the clan, to walk the wide world under the big sky, to talk to the tall folk and learn their ways. No-one else wanted to be better, to more than just a goblin.
She thought of the halfling, of the family he wanted to get back to, of the dreams he had.
No. She wasn’t in the wrong. Life was about growing, improving, doing things that mattered. It wasn’t about hiding and wondering when the next meal would be or counting down the days until the still was ready for emptying of the rough liquor they brewed.
She rubbed the blisters on her palms. No more would she do what they said. No more would she torture, would she burn her hands on the hot metal, would she make other living beings scream for the entertainment of the clan. It was time to do something.
She looked around, her eyes filtering the darkness of the cave around her into shades of grey.
Water dripped from the ceiling nearby before sliding down the wet side of a stalagmite. She walked over to it, arms outstretched, and enjoyed the burning pain as it washed the wounds there clean. Maybe this was what it felt like to become someone else. Maybe the old you, the one you didn’t like anymore, the one you had never wanted to be, had to be burned away so that the new you, the one you made and liked, could live. Maybe the years of insults, taunts and physical abuse had been preparing her for this day. Maybe it was time to become who she wanted to be, or to start on that path.
She sighed, her breath whistling through her razor-sharp teeth. There were so many maybes. The cave gave her lots of questions but no answers. The dark, as ever, wrapped her in its comforting embrace but remained silent. There would be no solutions here. Not for Borrki the goblin.
Something had to change, and it wasn’t going to be the clan.
It would have to be her.
The clan wouldn’t understand. How could they? They were goblins. All they knew was the thrill of the fight, the joy of knowing that they could overwhelm any threat to their safety through weight of numbers, the pleasure of hurting others before they could hurt you.
Small-minded, petty, vicious monsters.
Her heart thudded in her pointed ears.
Monsters.
That’s what they were.
That’s what she was.
But no more.
She would leave the cave. She would take her treasures, wrap herself in the darkness, and leave the cave. But how? When?
The others would come after her. They would chase her with knives, and skinning blades, and hot metal sticks. They would do to her what she had refused to do to the halfling. They would treat her as chattel, less than a goblin, less than the mangy dogs they kept for hunting and for eating.
She felt her stomach turn. She couldn’t do this. She was just one small goblin in a clan of killers. What could she possibly hope to do? It was hopeless. It would be better to forget these thoughts of escape and try harder.
She could be a goblin.
If only she tried harder, if only she tried better.
She looked down at her hands, at the bruises on her knuckles from where she had hit herself the previous day as she tried to make herself feel like a torturer’s apprentice.
No. It was too much. She couldn’t do this anymore.
She would either escape, and find who she was meant to be, or she would die trying.
*/*
The sounds of pursuit faded away behind her as she stumbled through the trees. The fire she’d set in the dog pen had spread far faster than her alcohol fuelled brain had expected. The rotten straw they used as bedding for the dogs had caught instantly and the dry wood of the enclosure had been smouldering as she ran.
She’d managed to grab the halfling on her way out, but they’d lost each other in the darkness, two small figures running on blind instinct and raw fear. She knew what they would do if they caught up to her. So, they wouldn’t catch her.
One thought pushed itself slowly through the haze of alcohol clouding her mind.
Who am I now?
She ran, her feet snapping dry wood at every step, her cloak and the cloth she had wrapped herself in to hide her goblin features caught at every tree branch. Animals fled from her and her breath began stabbing into her lungs.
Who am I?
She didn’t know. The dark sky, as comforting as the darkness of the cave, gave her no answers. The ground that threatened to trip her unsteady feet at every opportunity gave her no relief.
I don’t want to be Borrki anymore. Borrki is a stupid goblin.
The wind rushed past her ears, teasing her with half-heard words. Ahead, she could see the treeline, and the open grasslands beyond. The world waited for her to find herself. She could feel that it wanted to welcome her with open arms.
What aren’t I?
She slowed as this new thought fought its way clear of the strong goblin brew she’d had to drink to summon the courage she had needed.
A smile formed on her cracked lips as she reached the edge of the trees and took her first steps into a new world.
“I am Nott a goblin.”
I hope you enjoyed my personal, non-canonical take on Nott’s backstory from campaign 2 of Critical Role.
As with all fan ficiton, the intention was to honour that character and, as ever, thoughts, comments and criticisms are welcomed.
That's How We Roll 