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Zeeky H-Bomb

A Fire-Proof Box.

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(Found in a journal, locked in a scorched box...)

"When you have risked everything, then you have everything to gain."

- Goblin Manifesto of Profit

They hadn't thought of everything. Not in a couple thousand years of brilliance fueled by Kaja'mite, an' not in just shy two hundred years of twice-fast ignorance. Yet some cling to the old one's wisdom, like crawlers on the rocks of a squall. It's no suprise then without the wisdom, most're left blowin' in the wind with no rock to cling teh.

Our kin, the Goblin people, are dooin' just that.

The Shatterin', other races callin' it, changed everything on Azeroth. Great to small. Race to race. Faction to faction. It was the squall we din' see comin', without a rock to cling. Now, we're scattered on the winds - at the mercy of the elements. An' the lack of mercy of men and monsters.

An' why?

Simplemindedness. Ignorance. Once, we were the brightest, smartest race around. The history is' there, in the artifacts buried on the beaches, lost in the books nobodeh reads, buried under panderan takeout boxes and kaja'cola cans. Now, we tie all our efforts into the consumption that distracts ourselves from our own steady failing, desperate teh buy up all we can before we're too dull to know bettah. Look at the Trade Princes - see, it's already begun. Our kind seems to be tryin' to find some joy despite losin' everything precious. 'specially the precious rock that took us from the caves to the Golden Age, n' without it, to the gutters of our own decaying former glory.

An' it doesn't need to be that way. Believe it or not. I've been aroun' more than most gobs of Kezan, even those' sailin' n' sellin'. First han' seen many cultures - even' through the bittah veil a' war. I've seen what the gobs 've been missin', hidin' on our rock in the south seas. What we need to be great again. We need to remembah. We need to reclaim.

I look out over 'em. The Gob' people. Steamwheedles dominate the trade as usual, an' the Horde dominates the Cartel that took me in when I needed it most. Gobs have been slaves in ancient times so often, now, we're slaves to ourselves. To jaded Trade Princes, ignorant despite their political cutthroating. To a disappointment of a Warchief, in the Horde. N' we gobs? We take it. Run with it, accept it. Knuckle under, grovel, an' slave away on the war machine or for the Trade Prince's boo-j'waaah bullshit.

'xcept me.

Years I've served. I risked mah life n' limb for the Horde. At first for the money, second for the thrill, and eventually, for the friendship forged in the fire. Orcs, even Trolls, as well as the fellow Gobs throwin' down for a chance at a jackpot pay at the end - if they could survive it. I did. The Steamwheedles screwed me, the Horde didn't.

Still, I'd had my share of war. Wanted to go home with my take, settle down. Make a new start of it. Study up - make fireworks. That sort of thing. 'was happy. Found a gorgeous gob, had me some issues, an' put the past behind me.

The past catches up. Can't escape ourselves, 'seems. Steamwheedles offered me a reprieve for a huge cut of my blood-money, 'else they'd ship me back to the Blues as a war criminal. All part of a plan to get back into the trade good graces n' smooth over the fact we were exclusive with the Horde (an' that they lost). Told them to fuck right off, got chased out of Undermine for it. My family stayed. Ended' up in Bilgewater, with their Cartel. Got to see my family from time to time, carefully - so's not to get them in any trouble. The rest of my time was just me an' my Dog, Doog.

What is that rumbling....?

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