Krug could smell human blood from a mile away. He knew how to follow directions, and he knew which end of his club was the business end. Well, he was pretty sure he knew. Actually, that didn't seem to matter to Krug.
Krug loved the thrill of battle. He was a member of the fifth fifth infantry of the lower Azlorian horde. It might have actually been the fifty fifth infantry, but Krug only had ten fingers. Counting wasn't Krug's strong suit. Bludgeoning was.
Krug had seen a thousand battles, and he remembered every one he fought in this week. The raid on the human village. The storming of Pleasant Town. That one battle. Ah, memories.
Krug had many friends, and they all shared many interests. Pillaging. Explosions. Many of Krug's friends even shared his name. Good old Krug.
One day, while collecting the spoils of war from a peaceful human village, a shining object caught his eye. It was a glowing, magical butterfly. Without the slightest thought (and Krug only had the slightest thoughts anyway), he pounced, capturing the creature between his hands.
Krug opened his hands, just a crack. The glow of the sweet creature permeated between his fingers. As he looked, he could see the deep sorrow behind the sunken eyes of the butterfly, the weight of his plight, and the emanating fear of death. Krug took a breath. He was feeling something different, something new. Krug was having an existential crisis. Krug felt a connection to the poor beast. Somehow, they were the same.
Krug opened his hands, releasing the butterfly into the golden summer sky.
Then he grabbed the little bugger and ate him in one bite. Krug wasn't a philosopher. He was a goblin.
xoxo (CW) Alex
Posted Monday, Sep 30th 2013 @ 14:36