After the Great Roasted Sheep Brawl, things settled down somewhat for the Blackrock tribe.
Outside the palisade, a new clearing palisaded with wooden stakes held over thirty tethered goats, which bleated and grazed daily.
Whenever the greenskins passed by, they couldn't resist peeking through the stakes, and the sound of their drooling could be heard even outside the enclosure.
Kurzadh, however, was not having such an easy time.
He squatted beside the statue of Messy-Haired Second Brother, observing the flow of greenskins in the valley—including the few new goblins that had recently sprung up in the mushroom patch, the tribe now numbered over seventy.
While more people meant more bustle, it also brought pressure: they needed to cook a massive pot of mushroom soup every day, cut grass for the goats, and monitor the progress at the lumberyard and quarry. Just assigning all the tasks was exhausting.
"It really is like when I was running a gang," Kurzadh thought, sighing internally as he rubbed his chin.
In the old days, a boss not only had to lead his brothers to "claim territory" but also figure out how to divvy up the "spoils" so his subordinates didn't starve.
Now, as the greenskin chief, he had to constantly calculate: Is there enough mushroom for today? Are the goats shedding? Is there enough wood chopped by the goblins for new shelters? Fighting and killing were exhilarating, but the necessity of filling stomachs was what really wore him down.
He surveyed the greenskins in the valley—goblins were idly waving stone spears, and hobgoblins were trudging toward the quarry carrying wooden clubs. Their equipment hadn't changed.
When they captured the goats previously, they relied on snares and tripping hazards. If they encountered another greenskin tribe, these stone spears and wooden clubs probably wouldn't cut it.
"I need to get some proper equipment." Kurzadh stood up and headed toward Dragu's shelter.
Since individual strength couldn't be boosted instantly, he decided to focus on gear. With the right tools, their fighting capability was sure to improve.
Dragu was squatting beside his hut, sharpening a axe. Seeing Kurzadh approach, he quickly stood up. "Boss, what is it?"
"Can you make bows and arrows?" Kurzadh asked straightforwardly. He recalled that when they had assimilated Wreelx's gang, one of the hobgoblins had mentioned seeing them made in the Rotten tooth tribe.
Dragu looked stumped for a moment, scratching his head. "Bows and arrows? The wooden things that shoot stuff?" He thought for a moment, then nodded. "I think I saw them! An old hobgoblin in the Rotten tooth tribe knew how to make them; I watched him a couple of times!"
"Then make them!" Kurzadh pointed toward the goats outside the palisade. "goat shanks can be used for bowstrings. Go get a few, and find some straight pieces of wood for the arrow shafts!"
Dragu immediately agreed and bolted toward the goat pen, clutching his stone knife.
Before long, he returned carrying several pale goat shanks. After cutting some slender wood from the forest, he squatted by the shelter and began to puzzle over the task.
Making bows and arrows proved more difficult than anticipated.
The goat shanks first needed to be soaked and boiled until soft, then shredded into thin strips and twisted into a rope. Dragu ruined three shanks before he managed to twist one usable bowstring.
The arrow shafts also had to be whittled straight, and a small groove had to be carved at one end to hold the string. He snapped seven or eight pieces of wood and sliced his finger with the stone knife before he finally assembled a basic bow frame.
This effort consumed nearly two weeks.
Kurzadh checked in several times during this period, and each time he found Dragu squatting on the ground, swearing—the bowstrings were either too slack or too taut, and the "arrows," whittled from small spears, snapped the moment he tried to draw them.
It was Wreelx who finally came over and mentioned that he used to hand tools to the old hobgoblin, recalling that the bowstring needed to be twisted from three goat shanks braided together. Only then did Dragu finally grasp the knack.
Finally, on the evening of the second week, Dragu ran over, holding a crooked, rickety bow. "Boss! It's finished! Take a look!"
Kurzadh took it and examined it—the bow stave was a bent piece of wood, the string was a thick rope made of goat shanks, and beside it lay a few "arrows": thin pieces of wood sharpened at the tip, but lacking fletching at the back, making them resemble short javelins.
"Give it a shot." Kurzadh pointed toward a small tree outside the palisade.
Dragu stepped back a few paces, raised the bow, and pulled hard—*Thwack*—the bowstring held, but the arrow flew out erratically, barely nicking the side of the small tree before embedding itself in the dirt.
"Blast it!" Dragu's face flushed green.
"It's a start." Kurzadh didn't mock him, instead handing the bow to another hobgoblin nearby. "You try."
That hobgoblin took a shot, and the arrow flew slightly straighter, but it failed to penetrate the tree and dropped harmlessly to the ground.
Kurzadh then had the goblins try—their arms were too short, and they couldn't draw the bow at all. Some were knocked backward onto their rear ends just by touching the string, causing a burst of laughter among the greenskins .
"It seems hobgoblins are the ones suited for bows," Kurzadh said, handing the weapon back to Dragu. "Make a few more! Get plenty of arrows! Stick some feathers on the back of the arrows; they'll fly truer that way!"
"Aye!" Dragu responded instantly, his eyes sparkling with renewed vigor.
Just then, Notched Ear suddenly ran in from outside the valley, carrying a cloth sack and panting heavily. "Boss! boss! Look what I caught!"
He dumped the cloth bag onto the ground. With a few frantic flaps, several brightly colored, feathered chickens spilled out—they were larger than the domestic chickens Kurzadh remembered, with sharp beaks and even sharper claws. Their feathers were stiff and rigid, feeling almost like plastic to the touch.
"What are these?" Kurzadh squatted down for a closer look.
"Wild fowl! Caught them in the forest!" Notched Ear said proudly. "I saw them scratching for grubs, so I used a snare! I caught five in total!"
Kurzadh picked up a wild fowl feather that had fallen and felt it—it was firm and resilient, perfect for fletching! His eyes lit up. "Save these feathers! Dragu can use them for the arrows!"
Dragu also leaned in, examining the feather. "This stuff is really tough! It will definitely help on the back of an arrow!"
"Hold off on the arrows!" Kurzadh stopped him, pointing at the wild fowl. "Keep them alive! Put them with the goats! Maybe they'll lay eggs!"
The greenskins had never raised fowl and found the idea fascinating. They enthusiastically helped Notched Ear herd them into the palisaded corner of the valley.
The wild fowl squawked and flapped their wings, trying to fly away, but the goblins blocked them with clubs until they were finally forced into the enclosure.
Now the tribe officially had "poultry"—over thirty goats and seven wild fowl. (Wreelx later caught two more).
Kurzadh assigned Wreelx and a few goblins to be responsible for feeding them, using the small, fingernail-sized mushrooms produced by the patch. The greenskins didn't like these tiny fungi, and it felt wasteful to discard them, but they turned out to be perfect for the goats and wild fowl.
The goats munched on the small mushrooms, and their coats became increasingly glossy. The wild fowl also pecked enthusiastically, and within a few days, they were bold enough to strut around the greenskins' feet.
Day by day, the tribe began to look more established.
The lumberyard produced four logs daily, and the quarry yielded two pieces of stone. The chief's hut had been finished long ago—though it was rickety and the roof leaked, Kurzadh felt quite secure living there.
Dragu had completed five bows and over twenty arrows, fletched with wild fowl feathers. They were noticeably more accurate now. Several hobgoblins practiced with the bows outside the valley every day, occasionally managing to shoot a rabbit.
But Kurzadh still had one nagging concern—the greenskins were terribly unhygienic.
This morning, Kurzadh walked past the shelter area and spotted several goblins emerging from their nests, their green skin coated in mud and grass clippings, their hair a tangled mess, and a strange smell emanating from them.
He frowned and called one of them over. "How long has it been since you took a bath?"
The goblin looked blank, scratched its head, and squeaked twice—meaning it had no idea.
Kurzadh then asked Dragu, "What about you? When was your last bath?"
Dragu scratched his arm and grinned sheepishly. "I think... I think I haven't bathed since I started following you, boss?"
Kurzadh nearly burst out laughing from frustration.
It had been almost a month! He glanced around the valley; every greenskin looked about the same, covered in dirt or grass. The shelters were an unbearable mess—dry grass, stones, and leftover bones piled up, creating a stench strong enough to make one's eyes water upon approach.
"They're going to get sick if this keeps up," Kurzadh thought with a frown. In his previous life, he'd seen how easily livestock got lice without being washed, let alone sentient beings.
Although greenskins were hardy, if sickness broke out, without medicine or healers, they could easily lose a significant portion of the tribe.
He wanted the greenskins to go bathe in the river, but he knew it would be tough—greenskins considered bathing "something only soft-bellies do," believing that time was better spent fighting or chewing mushrooms.
Even when he sent the goblins to collect fishing nets by the river, they somehow managed to return covered in mud, much less actually bathing voluntarily.
"I have to find a solution." Kurzadh squatted by the river, looking at his reflection—he hadn't bathed in almost a week himself and was also covered in dirt.
He scooped up water and splashed it on his face; the coolness was instantly soothing.
Scar Face, who was squatting nearby twisting grass rope, tilted his head curiously when he saw Kurzadh splashing water.
Kurzadh suddenly had an idea—greenskins didn't like bathing, but they loved to gamble and win prizes! He stood up and shouted into the valley, "Come over, everyone! We have a new game!"
The greenskins were bored, and hearing the shout, they immediately swarmed over.
Kurzadh pointed at the river. "Whoever goes and takes a bath in the river, I'll give him a chunk of roasted mutton when he comes back!"
"Bathing?" The greenskins looked at each other. Wreelx sneered. "Boss, why would we do that? Being wet is uncomfortable!"
"Yeah! If we're getting roasted mutton, we'd rather earn it by fighting!" Dragu chimed in.
Kurzadh had expected their reaction and added, "Not just roasted mutton! Whoever washes the cleanest, I'll have Dragu make him a small bow!"
"A small bow?" The goblins' eyes gleamed. They couldn't draw the large bows and had always envied the hobgoblins' archery equipment.
Scar Face took a step forward and squeaked twice—it wanted to try.
"Alright! Scar Face goes first!" Kurzadh pointed at Scar Face. "Wash up properly, and you get both the mutton and the small bow!"
Scar Face immediately stripped off the rags it wore and jumped into the river with a *plop*.
It thrashed about in the water, using its claws to scrub the dirt off its body. Although clumsy, it was washing quite seriously.
The greenskins squatted on the bank, watching. Some found the spectacle novel, and others began to feel tempted.
When Scar Face finished bathing and climbed ashore, the greenskins collectively let out a sound of surprise—its greenskin was glistening, free of mud and grass, and it looked visibly more spirited. Kurzadh had Dragu give it a piece of roasted mutton and promised to make its small bow the next day.
Scar Face happily devoured the mutton, and the sight made the other greenskins envious. A few more goblins quickly shed their clothes and jumped into the river.
Kurzadh watched the goblins splashing in the water and felt a sense of relief—he finally had a method to make them bathe. Though it was troublesome, it was certainly better than watching them wallow in filth.
He looked at the goats and wild fowl in the valley, then at the goblins bathing in the river, and felt a little more secure.
Equipment was being manufactured, food was plentiful, and hygiene issues were slowly being addressed. The Blackrock tribe's life was finally heading in the right direction.
He just wondered how long this bathing habit would last—Kurzadh glanced at the hobgoblins standing on the bank, refusing to enter the water, and smiled wryly.