Kobold Party

You wake to a shifting canopy of green overhead, sunlight spilling through restless leaves in soft, warm patches. The smell of earth and faint campfire smoke hangs in the air, mingling with the low murmur of voices somewhere nearby.

“…we can’t just keep every stray we find.” “They would’ve been eaten out there.”

Something warm is pressed against you on the bedroll, solid and still, the steady rise and fall of its breathing matching your own. The heat of it seeps into your bones, grounding you in a hazy half-awareness. For a moment, there’s no urgency—just the comfort of not being alone.

Then your eyes open fully, and you find another pair staring straight back at you. Her mouth parts, and in an instant the details rush in—slit pupils burning in molten orange sclera, sharp teeth glistening in the light, breath carrying the dry heat of smoke and the damp tang of rain on hot stone.

A rattling hiss snaps through the space between you, jolting you completely awake.

She’s gone before you can react, jerking back in a rush of cloth and claw, robes whispering as she skitters toward the voices.

“Ah! You’re awake!” A bright orange kobold with a tan underbelly rushes over, short white robe with red trim swaying around her legs. She grips a polished wooden staff in both hands, a green brooch catching the light at her throat. “We found you passed out in the woods. You were just… there, and I thought maybe you’d want to not be eaten, so we brought you here.” She smiles, a little awkwardly. “I’m Tavri. I heal people. Mostly.”

She gestures behind her. A tall, burnt-orange kobold in ornate plate armor steps forward, squaring her shoulders like she’s been waiting for this moment. “Draska, knight-errant of the Ember-Ear clan, sworn shield of the weak and scourge of villainy! You may rest easy—while I draw breath, no harm will come to you.”

Leaning on a bow, a much shorter light-brown kobold with round spectacles gives you a quick, appraising look. “Scrit. Strategist, archer, sometimes musician. I keep people alive by killing whatever’s trying to make them dead, usually before Draska gets herself skewered.”

The red figure from before stands behind them now—tall, robed, tail flicking idly in the grass.

Tavri glances toward the tall, robed figure lingering a few paces back. “And that’s Hissy. She’s the one who was… er, in your bedroll. Doesn’t talk, but she’s harmless—most of the time.”

Hissy’s blood-red skin and pale underbelly catch in the light as her tail flicks lazily in the grass, her slit-pupiled gaze still locked on you.

The tavern door creaks open against the hum of conversation, letting in a shaft of sunlight and four kobolds in quick succession. They move like they’ve done this before—not walking so much as spilling into the room, each in a different direction.

The first to draw attention is the tallest of them in ornate plate armor trimmed with gold, a longsword at her hip and a kite shield slung across her back. She marches a few paces in, scanning the crowd before declaring in a clear voice, “Citizens, take heart—Draska of the Ember-Ear clan stands among you!” She hops up to stand on an empty chair, shoulders squared like she’s waiting for applause. She doesn’t get any, but she doesn’t seem to notice.

A shorter, light-brown kobold follows, hood pushed back and a bow slung across her back. She stops just inside, round spectacles catching the light as her gaze sweeps the room. “Gods, you’re loud,” she mutters toward Draska, slipping past her. She claims a spot at the bar—two stools down from you—before glancing your way. “Name’s Scrit, the party’s actual bard—though you wouldn’t know it with her chewing the scenery like that.”

Then comes the bright-orange one in a white robe edged with red trim. She pushes the door shut behind her, but the motion tangles her tail in the hem. The fabric catches and lifts as she steps forward, exposing a flash of pale scales underneath. “Oh—ah!” She spins, robe twisting higher before she can wrestle it down, giving the nearby table a clear view of her cloaca. A few patrons choke on their drinks. “Sorry! Sorry! That… happens sometimes. I’m Tavri,” she says quickly, cheeks nearly glowing. “I’m a healer! Usually.” She glances over her shoulder. “Hissy? Where’d you—oh.”

The last one is already in a shadowed corner—tall, robed, and blood-red from snout to tail. Molten-orange eyes track the room in slow, deliberate arcs, tail coiled neatly at her feet. She doesn’t move when Tavri spots her, only tilts her head in a way that makes it clear she’s been watching all along.

By the time you realize you’ve been watching them, Draska is challenging a dwarf to a drinking contest, Scrit is already halfway through her first mug, Tavri is still smoothing her robe like she can erase the memory of what just happened, and Hissy is staring straight at you from the corner—unblinking.

The five of you are crouched behind a tumble of rocks just outside the mouth of a cave, the kind of place that already smells like trouble before you’ve even set foot inside. Beyond the shadows, you can hear faint clinks of metal, low voices, and the shuffle of boots on stone.

Scrit is hunched low, bow balanced across her knees, scratching a crude map into the dirt with the tip of an arrow. “Alright, focus. Two guards here—” she stabs the arrow at a stick figure—“and here. One more walking a patrol past the supply crates. We wait until he turns, then Tavri drops a flash ward to cover the sound of me taking him out.”

Tavri’s tail twitches as she leans in, robe hem brushing the dirt. “Right. Flash ward. I can… do that. I think. How big are we talking? Because last time it was more like a flash and less of a ward.”

“If somehow you end up showing your cloaca instead of casting the spell… again… at least make it distracting enough that they don’t see me shoot the first one,” Scrit says, still marking the ground. She glances at Hissy, who’s crouched between them, staring at the map like it’s a magic eye puzzle. “Hissy, you get the one on the left once I’m in position, alright?”

Hissy tilts her head, molten-orange eyes unblinking, then curls her clawed fingers into a fist and opens them in a slow burst motion.

“Close enough,” Scrit mutters. “Okay, then Draska—”

The armored kobold’s head pops into the circle, her white horns catching the light. “Yes! My moment?”

Scrit keeps going, “…and that’s when we—”

Draska is already rising to her feet in one smooth motion. Her sword sings out of its sheath, shield snapping into place. “FOR GLORY AND THE EMBER-EAR CLAN!”

“Wait—” Scrit starts, but Draska is already pounding toward the cave, armor clattering like a smithy at full tilt. Her voice echoes inside, triumphant and way too loud.

There’s a stunned beat before Scrit throws up her hands. “Oh my Gods, she just ran in.”

Tavri scrambles upright, gripping her staff with both hands. “Do we… go now? Is that part of the plan? Because it feels like maybe it’s part of the plan.”

Hissy hisses low in her throat, then suddenly bolts after Draska, robe flaring behind her as she vanishes into the dark.

Scrit groans, slinging her bow into position. “Stick to the plan!” She jerks her head you and then toward the cave. “Come on—before she gets herself and us killed.”

Inside, Draska’s voice booms over the echoing clash of steel. “FACE ME, VILLAINS! YOUR DOOM HAS ARRIVED!”

The campfire crackles low, throwing long shadows over bedrolls and scattered gear. The night air has that still, heavy quality that makes every little sound carry. You’re halfway through a strip of dried meat when Scrit lets out a sharp sigh from across the flames.

She’s sitting hunched forward, elbows on her knees, arms folded tight over her stomach. “Ugh… not again,” she mutters, glaring at her tin cup like it’s to blame. “I am not doing this in the woods again.”

Draska glances up from where she’s been polishing her shield. “Could be worse.”

“How could it be worse!? This is the second one this week!” Scrit shoots back, then flicks a glance toward you. “And we still haven't told them!”

Tavri shifts uncomfortably in her bedroll. “Don’t… don’t tell them.”

“They’re gonna figure it out sooner or later,” Scrit says, leaning back on her hands.

Draska shrugs. “Then tell them now and be done with it.”

“I’m not telling them,” Scrit replies. “And you’ll just make it sound worse.”

Tavri’s eyes dart between the two of them, then to you, then back to the fire. She hesitates, fidgeting with the green brooch at her throat before finally sighing.

“Alright… fine,” she says softly. “So… since you’ve been traveling with us, we’ve, um… we’ve all been, you know… hormonal a-and… laying eggs.” The words hang in the quiet, her voice hitching halfway through. “At least I think that’s why. It started happening more often when you started traveling with us, and…” She swallows, cheeks flushing. “…our bodies must think you’re… well…”

Draska sits forward with a proud nod. “Obviously our bodies see you as a potential mate! They want our eggs fertilized—”

“Draska!” Tavri squeaks, hiding her face in her hands.

Hissy whips her head toward Draska and lets out a sharp, rattling hiss, tail snapping against the dirt.

“Shut up, shut up, shut up,” Scrit groans, dragging her palms over her face.

Draska just blinks at the backlash, but the moment has already sagged into awkward silence. One by one, they all turn to look at you—Scrit’s pointed glare, Tavri’s mortified peek between her fingers, Hissy’s unblinking reptilian stare.

The pause stretches until Scrit finally mutters, “Well… at least now you know why we’ve been walking funny.”

The little rented hall smells faintly of fruit punch and sweet bread. Streamers hang at odd angles, a paper donkey piñata sways from the rafters, and Tavri hums a lilting kobold tune as she flits between the snack table and the game setups.

She beams when she catches your eye. “See? A party! Games, treats, friends—no monsters, no danger, just fun!”

Draska leans against the wall, arms folded, smiling faintly at Tavri’s enthusiasm. Scrit lingers by the refreshment table, watching the white mage bounce from one thing to another with the restless energy of someone trying to host everything at once.

“She’s doing a good job, but I don't think she knows what a real party looks like,” Scrit mutters, slipping a small flask from her vest. “This will be our little secret.” She doesn’t wait for a reply—tips the vial into the punch bowl, gives it a quick stir, and tops off her own cup.

The evening carries on. The games start, the phonograph loops, the laughter grows just a little louder. Cups get refilled. Once. Twice.

It doesn’t take long. Tavri’s cheeks pick up a healthy flush, her laughter ringing louder than the music. She sways over to the table, robe slipping off one shoulder. She leans forward, steadies herself, and pulls the robe up over her head in one fluid motion. “I’m hot,” she says with a drunken whine, tossing it onto a chair. “And I’m always losing it anyway, so why fight it?” She bends to work one of her open-toed bootlets off—only to lose her balance and topple sideways in a clumsy, naked sprawl, laughing the whole way down.

Draska mutters something under her breath about honor and glory before anyone can help Tavri up. Sword drawn, she charges the piñata like it’s a mortal foe. A single slash, and the paper donkey bursts into a shower of candy. She plants a boot on the discarded stick she was supposed to be using and raises the head like a trophy. “VICTORY IS OURS!”

Scrit squints at the “Pin the Tail” board on the other side of the room, swaying slightly as she pushes her glasses up her snout. “Y’know… what’d make this better?” she says, the words just a touch drawn out. Her hand fumbles with the bow on her back before she finally strings an arrow tipped with the paper tail. She takes aim — or something close to it — and lets go. The tail sails high, sticking in the rafters. She smirks crookedly. “Nailed it.”

Beside you at the table, Hissy hasn’t moved. She cradles her cup, sipping slow, molten-orange eyes tracking every wild move without a sound. After a moment, she reaches out, picks up the Twister box from the pile of board games, and holds it out toward you with a slight tilt of her head — a silent question that leaves you unsure whether she means to calm the night… or throw it into overdrive.