Reginald and the Flag
Having safely insured that his master was sufficiently distracted by thoughts of what to construct the actual standard out of, Wekkit walked off into the brush to follow up on the minions assigned with finding a suitable pole. He was fortunate that the windy plane did not allow for many trees to grow too large, making the pole lighter he hoped, but at the same time it did lead to very, very few trees with any sort of straightness to them.
Ahead he could see the top of a small tree shaking rather violently, and judging from the various grunts and groans coming from that direction he suspected that his cohorts had found what they were looking for. And so it was that he rounded a rocky outcropping, mouth open to congratulate them, when he was stopped dead in his tracks.
There, crouched low next to the tree, was the other new goblin Reck. Axe strapped snugly to his back he sat there chewing the small tree’s trunk while the other minions looked on.
It took the pudgy goblin a moment to take it all in, hoping against hope that something would begin to make sense, but that was not the case. Walking into the midst of the bunch he leaned down to lock eyes with Reck. “You have an axe.”
“Mmm hur,” said the gnawing goblin.
With all the patience he could muster Wekkit spoke. “Why don’t you use it?”
Reck removed his mouth from the tree, which he was already over half way through, and flashed an incredibly toothy grin. “Boss, my gran, she was what they call a beaverkin. I gots her teeth my mah always said!”
Wekkit was prepared to concede that the teeth looked adequate to the job, however he was not prepared to give up the point that the axe would be faster, and said so.
It was his brother Dorkin, the biggest and dumbest who answered. “Dat axe ‘spensive. Teef is free.”
Wekkit stared blankly at each of them in turn, stunned, and then walked away as Reck continued chewing away at the tree. He was almost back to the palanquin when he heard a crack, and a glance back showed it toppling over. With a resigned shrug he carried on, finding himself back in his lords presence.
Reginald was in the midst of summoning his standard. Conjuration and construction magics were not his specialty, but he more than made up for that in enthusiasm. He was no good with anything that required finesse, like cloth or fabric, but he had a bit of knack with metal, so he had decided to make it out of a sheet of tin. Being as unskilled at painting as your average goblin would be at origami he decided to just make the banner in the shape of his sigil, the same that graced each of his minions shoulder.
It took some time, but just as the finishing touch had been placed on it and it rattled thunderously to the ground as it popped fully into existence, the minions returned with the staff to affix it to. Giggling with glee he summoned up a touch more magic and bound the two together. It was truly awes inspiring, over eight feet tall with the dragons wing span well over seven feet wide. Truly glorious!
Wekkit looked at the standard, which was double his height and width, and looked to weigh in the neighborhood of at least 100 lbs.
Reginald thought he heard his captain say ‘Nope.’ “What was that Wekkit?”
Wekkit’s eyes bulged just a bit, most likely due to how impressed he was by the standard the mage thought, and the glory that would be his for wielding it. He could see the fat little goblin looking from the standard to the palanquin, back and forth, back and forth, clearly trying to decide what would be the most fulfilling way to serve his lord.
“My most fell overlord! I…uh…I would offer a suggestion. Perhaps Dorkin might carry the standard, as he is the most physically impressive of your servants and would make a most striking figure. And with your lithe form, only four goblins need carry your magnificence, leaving me free to supervise, and Swarth there to scout our advance to the farm.”
Reginald grinned broadly, realizing that the lopsidedness and limpingness of his palanquin would be greatly diminished by this. “Very well Captain Wekkit. Swarth, you are now Master Sergeant Swarth, commander of my scouting core!”
If looks could kill, Swarth would have been bludgeoned to death by a pair of fat little goblin eyes.