Nibble and Gnash: Day 43

[S] Fantasy, anyone? (43,557 / 1,000,000)

Nibble hummed a tune under his breath while he cleaned underneath his fingernails with his ‘scalpel’. He liked to call the jagged iron dagger he used in operations his scalpel, because it made him feel more like a real medic.

Medics were a very recent addition to the roving horde of monstrous folk that Nibble called home. For as long as he could remember, Nibble was one rather small part of a great force of orcs, trolls, goblins, and the like that swept across the land, killing, conquering, and taking what they wished; led only by the greatest warrior among them, the Grand General Thorol. Under Thorol’s leadership, all members of the horde had one command: kill what was before them and take what they wanted, saving the best loot for the General himself, of course. 

Nibble, being small even for a goblin, wasn’t particularly good at plundering, and was worse at killing, though he was quite adept at targeting the soft spots in his often-larger enemies. Being so close to the ground, ankles were always within the reach of his blade. Nibble sighed, and leaned against the rickety table. Those days were simpler, but he didn’t miss them. Ever since Thorol was overthrown, the horde wasn’t so much a horde as a fully organized army. Nibble didn’t do as much ankle slicing since then, but found his keen eye could be used to avoid critical areas as much as target them. And so, he became the horde’s first medic.

It had all changed only a few seasons ago. The horde had been marching across open plains for weeks, eating only what they could forage and the chance game animals that strayed too close to their archers. With weeks full of marching and devoid of killing, the horde had worked itself up into a nearly slavering blood frenzy. So, when they crested a hill one morning and looked down into a valley full of human civilization, they charged before the General’s call could be made. Not a single orc or troll thought to question the curious lack of protection around the village, nor the single warrior who rode out to meet their charge head on.

Thousands of them fell before even one of them hesitated. The rider cut through the horde like a bolt of lightning through a tree. A single swing of his sword felled a dozen of the horde, yet no spear thrust or axe blow could land on him. The pale horse on which he rode danced and dashed through the horde with ease, trampling nearly as many as its rider cut down. Only when the entire front line was broken, did Thorol deem the rider a worthy opponent. The roar of the General’s challenge quenched the fire in the horde’s gut, and halted their advance.

Thorol was killed instantly, of course, making the rider the new leader of the horde. The transition of power was not smooth, as one might imagine, but eventually the rider’s supremacy could not be argued. So, the roving horde of monsters became the first army of the good General Praltor. And like any good army for a good General, they needed a medic. Here, Nibble found his skills to be most useful.

“Next!” Nibble called, setting the blade down on the table beside him.

A meaty hand reached into the tent, and threw aside the patchy leathers that constituted the tent flap. A thick-necked orc stomped up to Nibble, and glared down at him. Orcs particularly hated consulting the medic, they felt like it was a personal defeat somehow. This one had an arrow jutting out of his neck, a thick rivulet of black blood streamed down his armor. Nibble snatched up his scalpel and held it between his teeth while he scrambled up the towering barbarian. His deft fingers made quick work of removing the arrow, and he stuffed the open wound with some greasy rags he produced from a pocket.

“You should be able to get back to scrapping right away,” Nibble said, and leapt down.

The orc stretched his neck back and forth, and rolled his shoulders. Nibble rolled his eyes as the rags darkened with blood. The orc grunted - a surprising expression of gratitude coming from an orc - and stomped out of the tent again.

“Next!”  Nibble called, with a sigh.

The inside of the tent darkened as a humongous figure obscured the tent opening. A massive troll pushed into the tent. With his immense size, the troll could barely stand in Nibble’s little medic tent. He trudged forward, one of his four-fingered hands cradling his jutting lower jaw.

“Gnash!” Nibble called, smiling broadly. Gnash was, well, Nibble’s little brother of a sort. His smile faded when he saw that Gnash’s watery grey eyes were even more watery than usual.

“What’s wrong big guy?” Nibble asked, walking over to the towering figure.

“I… I hur- my toof” Gnash said, his deep grating voice was accompanied by an uncharacteristic stuffiness, like he was talking around a mouthful of cloth.

“Aww, I’m sorry bud,” Nibble said, reaching up to pat the troll on the knee. “More rock making drills? Let me take a look.”

Gnash nodded and fell to his knees with a great crash. The good General took good advantage of the sheer power and regenerative abilities of the troll folk. When not at war, the trolls were responsible for finding humungous rocks and turning them into large rocks… by smashing them with their faces. It was surprisingly effective, although the trolls had no pain-reducing abilities.

Gnash took Nibble in his free hand and gingerly lifted the tiny goblin up to his face.

Nibble shooed the troll’s other hand away from his mouth, and inspected the bloody and toothy mess. Both of Gnash’s lower tusks were broken clean off, and his nose was leaking blood. Nibble tutted and gently patted Gnash’s bald head. He produced some slightly cleaner rags from his pocket, and used them to staunch the flow of blood from the troll’s nostrils. He thought to start on the tusks, but saw that his brother’s regeneration was already taking care of it. Nibble skittered down his brother’s immense form in a flash.

“It’s good you came to me,” Nibble said. “You can’t let the other’s see you like this.”

Gnash nodded. Trolls weren’t known for their intelligence, but even Gnash knew not to show weakness to the horde. Even under the good General Praltor, shows of weakness were often met with culling.

“C’mon, let’s go get some grub,” Nibble said.

Gnash smiled and climbed to his feet, his teeth and tusks reknitting before Nibble’s eyes. It was a little known fact, but a troll’s regenerative power was directly linked to his mood. Nobody took the time to notice small things like that. Nobody except for Nibble of course.