Eeee squirms uncomfortably as I crossly repeat myself for the fifth or sixth time.

  “Non! Tak tal. Scarr ter. Der. Non! Der!” I scream in frustration, impatiently forcing the little one’s attention back to the soil at our feet.

  At first, my impressively talented writing on the ground attracted nearly everyone’s attention to me. Carving oversized shapes into the dirt with my claws in order to create a welcoming exhibition, I aimed for the general immersion of the entire goblin population. If a few are passionately interested in my work, then perhaps that’ll act to filter out the most capable for further attention and instruction. After all, proving that I can educate even one of my brothers justifies that much more investment and action inspiring the others.

  However, upon close inspection of my fine art, they only showed discourtesy and confusion. That is, until I finally drew the first “O” in context. The mob’s excitement was absolutely electrified at the sight, and they aggressively pushed and shoved to fully encircle it. Of course, it was far too small for the dozens of goblins to all wrap themselves around. Therefore, the surprise event only led to a mess of fierce altercations over the best seats on the outside of the tiny circle.

  Smacking myself in the face, I saw the problem. The only dirt carving that they know is the sparring circles. Hm. For now, I’ll place a crossing line through all of my circular letters to avoid that confusion. It’ll be like a secret, custom alphabet only for the brotherhood. Yes, yes, perfect.

  Predictably, nearly every goblin lost all interest as soon as the pure circles disappeared from my writing. Bored with the lack of action, they returned to their aimless lounging and occasional pointless bickering. However, this single goblin Eeee did stick around, curiously bending over the scratches and marvelling over the simple expressions.

  “Non! Non! Non Non!” I scream again, batting away his silly, meaningless scribbles until they fully collapse back into the empty dust that created them. “Scar ter. Der. Der. Der. Gud?”

  My directions aren’t working at all. Why isn’t he copying me properly? The instructions are so simple and clear that anyone should be able to do it. Even the stupidest of goblins!

  “Mad mud!” he yells with little muddy tears in his eyes, distraught and finally defeated by the complete destruction of his painstaking creation. “Mad mud! Mad! Mad! Mad mad!”

  Watching him dramatically pout and flee to the other side of the congregation, I realize that properly connecting with Eeee will likely be impossible. He’s the only one who’s shown any interest at all. What gives? Where are those scroll goblins? Shouldn’t they in particular be interested in my tutelage? Why are they ignoring me?

  Frustration mounting, I storm back to the center and draw a new, larger circle. The old one was heavily trampled away long ago, and besides, it was far too small for my liking. The lazy fools finally give me their rapt attention as soon as I complete the shape. Fumbling over excitedly and fully surrounding the enclosure, they’re ready for their precious entertainment to start once again.

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  As soon as the eager lineup completes itself, I grab a random goblin from the crowd and unceremoniously pull them into the ring.

  “Agob een,” I coldly declare, drawing two of my daggers and tossing one to my selected opponent. “Afras.”

  If they won’t take to my reading and writing songs, then maybe they’ll listen to the symphony of deadly combat. My magic songs are far too advanced for their undeveloped little minds, but daggers and knives? That should be simple enough. If they become better able to use the tools that they find on expeditions, then our entire army will be significantly more effective. Right? I’m almost positive that goblins during my first raid picked up the dropped weapons of the big ones. I certainly did. I didn’t know what they were at the time, but what other metal would it have been?

  “Gew! Tak dat,” I shout, pointing to the dagger near his feet.

  Bouncing up and down excitedly at his great fortune, he eagerly grabs the blade of the dagger with both hands, draws an unhealthy amount of his own blood, and then mindlessly charges at me in a frothing rage.

  Nuts. There’s so much that they need to learn. I don’t even know where to start.

  Effortlessly side stepping his clumsy, futile attack, I bring my dagger down on the back of his neck. I’ve practiced this exact maneuver with the rats so many times now. Could I do this blind? His body goes fully limp, the strike cleanly severing the top of his spinal column. It’s over. Bending down, I reclaim the borrowed dagger before slowly marching back to the edge of the circle.

  The gathered crowd hollers and cheers fanatically at the exciting conclusion to the brief show. This is what you wanted, right? Right? Perusing the line of onlookers, I pick another and toss him into the circle.

  “Agob een. Yas?” I declare down my nose at him, grinding my teeth together. “Afras.”

  Again, I toss him the second dagger.

  The confused little one tries to carefully pick the dagger up, injuring himself in a very similar fashion to his predecessor. However, this time Blurgh sees fit to shove the dagger into his mouth, biting down hard. Spitting out broken teeth, blood, and bits of flesh, he harshly gags.

  “Urgh,” I sigh discontentedly at the sight of him. “Tak dat! Dat! Afras!”

  Reluctantly, he picks the dagger up again. This time, I charge in first. Yelping in surprise, he brings the dagger over his head with both hands and swipes it down at my leading head. However, anticipating the direct, frontal approach, his swing misses entirely as I sprint past him, easily circling around to stab him in the back of his neck.

  Even if they won’t learn, at least this effort is good for something. Notably, taking out my frustration and the composition of more songs. Sing, dodge, and slash, smash his short gap. Learn to defend, or take a long nap.