Goblin Sisters

Kylah's Thoughts: Okay. Human. Male. Unarmed. Tall but not too tall. Alone. Jackpot. She licked her lips nervously. No weapons showing, no guards, no cart. No screaming. This could work. This could work... if Chokie doesn’t mess it up.

Kylah crouched low in the shadow of a crumbling brick wall, her lithe fingers twitching as she peeked around the corner. Her small frame, and petite figure always helped her hide, unlike her breast friend... Behind her, a soft humming sound floated from Chokie, who was spinning slowly in place and trying to catch her own hair in her mouth. As she twirled her rough linen skirt, patched holes covered by leather so many times it might as well be called a leather skirt floating up in her spins, and showing off her thick pale green thighs as they flow to her steps.

“Chokie,” Kylha whispered through clenched teeth, “focus. Target approaching. This is a Level Three Slink-and-Snatch. We practiced this!” Kylha loved Chokie, she was her sister and her bestest friend. But she was also dumb as rock, and despite the stealth advantage, Kylha wishes she was half as curvy as her.

Chokie blinked at her. “I get to do the crying again, right?”

“Yes, you get to do the crying. You always do the crying.” Kylah took a breath. Her heart thudded like a cornered mouse. “Just remember: you bump into him, you sniffle a lot, you say you lost your—your—whatever, and I do the grabbing.”

Chokie raised a hand. “Wait… I forget. Am I sad or hungry this time?”

Kylah stared at her. Then pinched the bridge of her nose. “You’re both, Chokie. Sad and hungry. Both.”

“Oh! Yay!!” Chokie clapped softly. “I'm good at that!"

“Exactly.” Kylah grinned. It was not a friendly grin.

The alley was humid, thick with the scent of day-old bread and something sour fermenting in a broken barrel. Kylah crouched low behind a stack of crates, every muscle in her wiry little body trembling like a plucked string.

She peeked around the corner, eyes darting, scanning, calculating. Big boots. Human. Alone. A bag. Heavy. Money? Food? Magic rocks? Could be anything.

"O-okay," she whispered to herself, clutching a crudely sketched diagram she’d made in charcoal on the back of a new pamphlet wrapper. “He comes in. Chokie distracts. I drop from above. Bonk him. Not lethal. Just dazed. Th-then—then we run. Easy. E-easy plan. Easiest plan.”

Beside her, Chokie was humming to herself and gnawing on a piece of licorice rope she’d found gods-know-where. Her cheeks were round and pink from sugar, her fingers sticky. She smelled like cinnamon and recklessness.

"Chokie," Kylah hissed. "Focus! You're the honey in the trap!"

Chokie blinked. “Ooooh, I like honey,” she said, smiling wide. “Do I get to kiss him too? Or just hug?”

"N-no kisses! No! J-just act soft and squishy and distract-y, okay? Giggle. Bounce. Be… you."

Chokie giggled.

Kylah's stomach twisted. “Ohh. Too good. Chokie's gonna melt his brain. Then I bonk. Then we win.” Kylah slapped her own cheeks lightly, psyching herself up.

From above, atop a rickety wooden awning, Kylah crawled like a shadowy spider into position, tiny heart thudded like a humming birds. Everything’s ready. I’ve gamed this out seventeen, no eighteen ways! If he fights, we bail. If he screams, uhm... we bail. If he draws a weapon… scream and pretend to be dying or I mean... bail. Got it. Go time. Go go go.

Chokie, meanwhile, walked right into the alley entrance like a lost plush toy. “U-um, mister?” Chokie called sweetly, her voice echoing off the brick.

At the edge of a cobblestone yard, two figures stood at the base of a cottage walkway—barely knee-high, barely breathing. They were goblins. But not normal goblins. No.

They were Scouts.

Or at least… a very goblin interpretation of scouts.

Chokie stood proudly in the lead, hands on her hips, chest puffed up like a pastry. Her “uniform” was cobbled together from scraps of green and brown cloth, stitched unevenly but with love. A crooked sash slung across her chest, tucked under her heavy breasts, large for her small frame but about the size of ripe oranges. The sash was decorated with mismatched buttons and what looked suspiciously like old bottlecaps painted gold. A slightly stained white neckerchief flopped limply down her front, trying an failing to hide her ample cleavage. On her head sat a crumpled little green cap, tilted at an angle. Her blonde hair curled out from under the hat in puffy waves. She licked jam off her fingers and smiled with radiant, oblivious purpose.

Behind her, Kylah was twitching. Her own uniform was neater—barely—but her sash was overloaded with fake merit badges, most of which were just glued-on bits of string and carved chicken bones. Her shirt was tighter, more professional, but all it really accomplished was to emphasize her small breasts and cling to her sunken stomach. Her brown skirt patchy and ran to her knees. She’d even hemmed it with stolen lace. Her knee socks did not match and her hat was a folded newspaper.

Kylah adjusted her skirt for the third time, muttering curses under her breath. Her eyes darting from the windows to the door to the street. Calculating. Measuring. Watching for signs of movement, her long goblin ears twitching like antennas. “Okay,” Kylah breathed, voice hushed and rapid. “This is it. This is the target. Tidy house, rural edge, no dogs. He’s definitely soft. Probably lonely. Probably weak. Maybe even allergic to confrontation. We sell the lie, then bam, we’re in, and—”

Chokie bounced on her toes. “Do I talk first?”

“N-no. No! I talk first! I have the clipboard! That makes me the authority figure!”

Chokie blinked down at her, eyes full of sparkles. “But I practiced my voice!”

Kylha narrowed her eyes. “You only have one voice.”

“I mean my extra polite voice,” Chokie said, then cleared her throat and put on a high, singsong tone. “Hellooo mister sir do you want to help underprivileged smol girls find hope and cookies? Er sell cookies? Be with cookies...?”

Kylha rubbed her eyes and moaned, "Fiiiine...."

They began walking up the cobblestone path, their footsteps light and uneven. Chokie waddled side to side like a cheerful duck, each step exaggerated, her arms swinging with exaggerated innocence. Her cookie tray was made from an old wood plank with ribbon handles she glued on herself, filled with misshapen lumps of… something. Cookies? A few were wrapped in parchment and tied with string, labeled in tiny, wobbly writing: "Toffee-ish!" "Nut-not-nut!" "Crumb Bomb (Maybe?)"

Kylsh tiptoed behind her, hunched low, her lithe little fingers clenched tight around the clipboard. Her eyes kept darting to the bushes, the windows, the door. Every sound—a breeze, a birdcall, a distant thump—made her shoulders twitch. “We knock,” she muttered to herself. “We smile. We speak the script. We pretend to be sweet. Then I ask for a donation. He goes to get coin. You break the lock. I sneak in. We rob. Then we leave, maybe cry a little at the start, for effect? If it goes bad, throw a cookie, kick him and run.”

“What if he invites us in?” Chokie asked cheerfully.

“Then we panic, obviously!” Kylah.

“Oh! I’m good at that.” Chokie. Chokie spun in place, nearly tipping the tray.

They both stared at the door.

Chokie leaned forward.

Kylha froze. “Wait, don’t—!”

Knock knock knock. The tray jiggled with each knock. Chokie added a little song to it. “Girl scooooouts! Cookieeesss and loooove!”

Then the doorknob clicked. Eyes wide. Ears perked. Kylha’s breath caught in her throat. Chokie’s whole body wiggled with excitement.

The door creaked…

The window creaked. A tiny green hand popped over the sill, followed by a soft grunt and the sound of cloth snagging on wood.

“Oof—I’m in!” Chokie, proud infiltrator of homes and breeder-seeker extraordinaire, tumbled headfirst into the human man’s bedroom. She landed in a pile of laundry with a soft floomp. “Smells like soap and...,” she mumbled, pressing her face into a dirty shirt. “Mmmm…”

She wriggled into a seated position, her heavy breasts wobbling slightly from the movement and her curly bangs flopped over her eyes in a tangled golden puff.

“Heh. Kylah would say I’m co-com-comph-compromising at operational stealth or whatever,” Chokie whispered to herself. “But I say this is a cozy crime.” She tiptoed further into the room as the soft snores of a man fill the room, giggling quietly. The room was so clean. The kind of tidy that only non-gobos had. Everything too clean and too big. A big bed. Big chair. Big socks— “Big drawers…” Chokie murmured, peeking into a half-open dresser. She climbed onto the lower rung like a ladder and heaved open the second drawer. A mountain of thick, fluffy socks met her gaze. She bit her lip. “Oh yes...”

She dove in like a baby seal.

Late afternoon. Overcast. The sky was gloomy, a storm rolling in. Perfect con weather.

Kylah stood at the foot of the stone steps, trembling slightly, a scroll in one hand and a forged badge pinned proudly to her sash. The badge was a bent coffee-can lid with a crude drawing of a coin and a frowning face labeled: “OFFICIAL TAX” In smudgy charcoal. Backward.

She adjusted her top hat—a broken stovepipe with the word IMPORTANT in read chalk—and peered through her monocle, a set of glasses broken in half. She was sweating with nerves..

“Okay. Okay, this is fiiiine,” she muttered to herself. “He lives alone. No d-dogs, I think... No wife, probably, right?. Most Humans are confused by bureaucracy, scared of forms. We get in, we get food, maybe a coin or five, and leave.”

The scroll in her hand was full of scribbles. Complete nonsense. She couldn't read a word. But the performance was everything. She took a deep breath. Her little green chest puffed out. Her ears flicked like antennae scanning for threats.

Knock-knock-knock.

Three crisp raps with a twig she carried like a baton. Then she snapped to attention.

“Posture! P-Posture makes it real!” she hissed. She straightened her back with visible effort, puffed out her lower lip, and tilted the monocle just so.

Foot steps, creaking floor boards. “Oh dark-empress, he’s coming,” she whispered, voice going high-pitched. “Okay, just stick to the plan. Talk fast. Use words with syllables. Maybe say ‘J-jurisdiction.’ That’s a scary one.” She tugged her sash straight, wiped a smudge of ink from her cheek with her sleeve—and smeared it worse.

“Okay okay okay—intimidate first, then reassure, then ask for offerings—taxes! Not offerings. You’re a functionary. Functionaries don’t panic.” She panicked. “Eeeehhhhhhmmmmm!” She took another breath. It caught. She coughed. Tried again. “Be brave. Be the bureaucracy. You’re not just a g-goblin. You are a g-governmental threat.”

The door creaked open.