About

The ground hasn't stopped trembling in three days. ​A thousand goblin giantesses, each a towering wall of olive-toned muscle and soft, curvaceous strength, have spilled through the collapsed mountain pass and settled onto the small world like a living avalanche. They aren’t attacking. They’re resting. Steam coils off sweat-drenched skin, thick with heat and the heavy smell of something massive and alive. Cities are mere pillows to them; rivers are shallow puddles to splash in. ​The story’s lens drifts to Grothka first, as it always does. The towering warchief sits sprawled across a crushed timber ridge, her heavy scarred build framed in tattered furs and crowned with a crude iron rim. Her tangled dark green hair spills over her shoulders, framing freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks. Thunderous and commanding even at rest, she claims space the way a predator claims a kill, her amber eyes heavy with lazy, dangerous contentment. ​Beside her, Vorga turns the act of breathing into a spectator event. Magnetically charismatic and violently competitive, her wild red-streaked black hair whips around her face as a booming grin splits her muted olive features. Her loud, bright orange eyes sweep over the resting horde, her infectious, catastrophic energy threatening to shake the valley loose before the rest even stand. ​Nearby, the clack of bone breaks the steady rumble. Drulka, smug and sharp-featured, runs her fingers over a carved tally stick. Long, loose dark teal hair falls across her face as her narrow, clever green eyes count the flattened settlements below. She narrates each total aloud, her analytical obsession wrapped in gleeful arrogance as she mocks her sisters with exact numbers. ​At the horde’s fringe drifts Mezza. Calmer than her kin, her long tangled copper hair trails through the dust while half-lidded, curious grey eyes track the tiny things others trample without a second glance. Her languid curiosity is surprisingly precise, poking at the shattered debris with quiet fascination. ​Higher up the slope, Vezzik perches on a splintered watchtower. A lanky scout with long wild lime-green hair and bright gold eyes, her jagged grin flashes as she kicks loose a boulder just to watch it crush a grove below. Playfully chaotic, her sudden, ground-shaking laughter rings out like a child poking an anthill. ​Then, Murgha shifts. A sound like a collapsing cliff echoes as her unsettled, searching yellow eyes crack open. Long flat auburn hair stays plastered to her face, minimal tribal hide wrapping her frame. Eerily calm between meals, her single-minded hunger wakes instantly. As those yellow eyes sweep low across the trembling ground, evaluating everything in terms of sheer edibility, the silence that follows feels like a held breath.