Zugzug
Goblin - Barbarian, Chaotic, Pack-blooded
Backstory
Zugzug was born in the dark, beneath the scorched bones of the Murder Peaks, at least, that's what he calls them. In the caves that he once called home, the stones breathed heat and the sky was said to kill any goblin that would wander to far from the cave. The elders knew this to be false. His clan, the Grimsnarl, were cave scuttlers, scavengers, survivors. They clawed out a living by hiding from the world, digging holes, eating beetles, obeying the strong, and lying to the weak. Zugzug never learned his clans stories, he was too angry, and he was too busy screaming.
From the moment he could walk, he was loud... too loud. The tunnels, silent for safety, echoed with his growls, his barks of laughter, and his challenges to the bigger goblins. When they hit him, he bit back. When they mocked him, he bled and laughed and charged again. And when they told him to quiet down, he screamed louder. “IF SKY CAN SHOUT, SO CAN ZUGZUG!”
He was seven winters old when the Grimsnarl cast him out, dragged kicking and snarling to the surface and left beneath an open sky that stretched too wide, too bright. He should have died, but the wind didn’t kill him. The sun didn’t burn him, and when he howled at the sky, it did not answer back, but neither did it silence him.
The sky was real, this he knew, but it was much more gentle than the lying elders had said it to be.
He wandered the Murder Coast, Zugzug named it, for a season, living on dead fish, dry roots, and stolen scraps. He was beaten more than once by mercenaries and road scum. One of them broke his ribs and threw him in a ditch. That night, Zugzug dreamed of fire, it was warm, very warm, and it did not comfort. It was a fire that devoured everything, his memories, his pain, his fear. He woke up laughing, and somehow, despite being battered to hell and back, he kept walking.
Months later, a crew of misfit mercenaries docked near a ruined watchpost to scavenge. When they left, they found their hold had been ransacked… by a green devil wielding a rusted cleaver and wearing a stolen tunic as pants. It took five of them to pin him. He bit two. They almost threw him overboard, until he declared, “I AM CREW NOW,” and demanded a weapon.
Most of them laughed, two of them groaned, and Captain Arden watched him closely. The next night, they gave him a dulled longsword and pointed him toward a pack of dire rats in the ruins. Zugzug returned covered, drenched in blood, none of it his.
He’s been Emberwake crew ever since.
He’s not smart... he can’t read... and his armor is cobbled together from six different uniforms and scrap metal. But when the wind howls and the sails split, when the dead rise screaming from the sea or when bandits close in with steel, Zugzug is the first to leap into the fight. No plan... no hesitation... just the unrelenting force of someone who has already survived too much to die now.
He doesn’t care about gold. Doesn't care about titles. Doesn't care about whatever the hell prophecy is. He cares about fighting, because it’s what he does. He protects the crew because they didn’t throw him away. And deep down, in the place he doesn’t show anyone, he wants something simple, acceptance. He's loud, brash, reckless, swings first, never asks questions later, and somehow, the people on the Emberwake tolerate him.
They never asked him to change, and that resonated with him deeper than any lie or any truth.
Once you're part of the crew, you're his family. He would tear a ships mast apart to save you, and threats to his crew are met with a sword swing, sword thrust, or the occasional headbutt.
After every battle, every raid, every victory, he stands on the prow and roars into the wind proudly, "ZUGZUG STILL HERE!"
And in that roar, there is defiance, there is survival, there is a boy that should have died but refused to... and a warrior who finally found his clan.
Life on the Emberwake
Zugzug was never given a role, he took one.
The crew didn’t know what to do with him at first. He was chaotic, he ate with his hands, slept under the cannons, bit a harpoon once to assert dominance. But he worked, by gods did he work, harder than anyone.
He didn’t ask why the sails needed mending or the rigging needed coiling, he just did it, grunting through splinters and storms alike. If asked to board a ship, he was the first one at the boarding plank. If asked to jump into a hoard of enemies, he would do it without flinching.
Over time, the crew stopped laughing at him and started following him into danger. He earned their respect through bruises, broken bones, and standing back up again. He learned to spar from Xidayn, though he bites too much. He helps Pickles in the kitchen, mostly by “taste testing” half the meal, he gets kicked out everytime. He naps near Lorelai when she reads, and growls if anyone speaks too loud.
They taught him how to tie knots, how to aim a ballista, how to speak without shouting. He never got good at the last one. But he learned names, he remembered birthdays, he fixed things in silence. He once jumped into the sea to pull a boy back after a storm, and refused praise for it.
His hammock is still a pile of ropes and furs in the corner of the lower deck. On the wall beside it, crudely etched with a dagger, are the words, “ZUGZUG HOME.”
And for him, that’s all he needs.
"One day, maybe… maybe someone say ‘Zugzug’ and smile. Not laugh. Just… smile." - To Lorelai
"Zugzug don't know how to pray. But… if someone listens, tell them crew is good. Tell them to keep them safe. Zugzug don’t mind storms, tell storm to stay away from them." - To Tayasha on what prayers are
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