In Bagrash Runtchucka’s mob you didn’t have to be fast – just faster than the other git.
The snaggle-toothed goblin they called Gutslitta didn’t look like he could stand upright in the howling wind coming down off the mountains around Black Crag, much less run. But run the goblin did, his flat feet flapping on the stone goat-path and his long ears bent back against his knobby green head as he raced up the steep slope past Runtchucka’s lumbering boyz. Beady-eyed, yellow-tusked heads turned at the sound of the goblin’s approach, and clawed hands the size of platters swung idly at Gutslitta as he dashed by, but the runt ducked and dodged his way past each crushing blow. His breath misted in the frosty air, wheezing past his jagged fangs like a broken whistle.
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