About Anklebiter the Insane
N small Goblinoid Wizard 3 (Abjurer)
AC 13 (+2 Dex., +1 size)
Speed 30 ft.
Str 8, Dex 14, Con 14, Int 16, Wis 13, Cha 10
0 - All
Spells/day 4/4/3; X = cast
Mogmurch became the Chief's 'little voice', the little voice that should be in the back of your head and tell you when something is not a good idea. Except the Chief did not want little voices in your head, so he made Mogmurch do it. It worked; the Chief could just ignore Mogmurch, and Mogmurch could watch and think in silence without anyone hitting or kicking him for it. Sometimes the Chief sent him away to look at things and think about things somewhere he did not have to see him or hear him, and those were good days, too. Mogmurch went to the old places, where the dead humans of ancient history had once built big cities and now there were only ruins. He looked at the ruins and the writings on their walls - he was just so curious, he could not help himself! That was the start of bad things to come.
Goblins alone do things that are as stupid as the things Goblins do together. Mogmurch started thinking about the magic of the dead humans. Humans wrote down their magic, and every Goblin knew that sucks the words out of your head. But the ancient humans had magic, again and again. Maybe they could suck the words back out of the page and into their heads? Mogmurch thought it might be so. He thought it could be so. He thought it must be so. He thought he must find out; magic was wonderful, and he wanted some for himself. That was the second step on the path to bad things to come.
He found the dying half-Orc on the edge of the tribe's territory. The tribe had found the half-Orc first, and they had cut him up good, then left him to die. Mogmurch thought of passing by, thought of giving him the final stab - and then he saw the scattered pages of a book, torn apart by the tribe's warriors. He thought the half-Orc must know writing, must know reading - and he dragged him away to a little cave he knew. He did not know much medicine, but the half-Orc had potions. He poured potions down the half-Orc's throat, brought him food, made fire for him. Slowly, the half-Orc got better, and he agreed to teach Mogmurch the writing secrets, the magic secrets he craved for. That was the third step.
Mogmurch should not have done it. He should have stabbed the half-Orc before he was all better. He should not have made the book. But he did not and he did. One day when he came to look in on his patient, the half-Orc was not there. Instead, when he returned to the tribe's home, there were dead Goblins, burned homes, and one dead half-Orc. So much damage, so much death, from one Wizard. Exciting! But the Goblins were moving around, the strong among the survivors kicking the weak out of their homes, and when one of them kicked Mogmurch out of his home, they found the book, the book with his magical writings. That was the end.
They branded Mogmurch's face with words, the shaman cursed him and took away his name. They kicked Anklebiter the Insane out of the village, a Goblin alone, doomed to live and die alone. Such a bad, bad day - maybe. He went to the places of the dead humans again, rummaged in the debris of history, looking for power. He went to the places of the living humans, too, and rummaged in their waste piles. So much stuff! So many things to hear, if he just kept quiet and hid from them. When he disguised himself, he could even sneak through their town and find out more. So scary! So dangerous! So exciting!
No more Goblins; none of them would have him, except other exiles. He had to find something else. Maybe not the Varisians; they hated Goblins. But other creatures also passed through the Varisian towns. He could leave with them, maybe. Travel out of Varisia and find other places, other magics for his collection. He could go; he was free.
He would start in Riddleport. Riddleport let most creatures in, so long as they had money.