He has gone by many names...
Lancelot...
Little John...

But here they will know him as

THUNDERER

Never let it be said the ancients were without humor. Why else would they send his portal veering off course towards a saccharine land that assaults barbarian eyes? As far as the brooding warrior was concerned that 'fowl' should have known the entire network would collapse, even if Lumerian Calculus could not understand the Cosmic Crown's sheer complexity, yet here he now pouted under a bright and healthy sun that refused to cast the sharp and gloomy shadows his world was known for. Bright, cheerful, alien, and devoid of Virgil to recalculate a new portal back home.

No Virgil. No Cosmic Crown that had been perched on said Lumerian's head. No explanation as to why the ancients decided his destiny now lay upon a soft and vibrant world. All he could do was to sit on a boulder, perch the one armor-less elbow to a knee so his blocky chin could rest on bare knuckles, grip the opposite knee with the other hand, and do his best impression of a Cimmerian resting a troubled brow.

...Or at least the best impression one could do while pouting lips managed to convey deep contemplation and child-like irritability that only a battle-deprived Viking could convey.

"Some joke indeed," he mutters, studying thin and soft shadows forming over roughened knuckles. "If this is Virgil's idea of appeasing me after that Rangoon then he should have picked a battlefield. Then again," as he peers skyward, brow furrowing over dark eyes that had once been blue in his youth, "perhaps the ancient ones directed me here." Again with the pouty lips, this time a bit more thoughtful while he rubs a bearded chin. "What is it the Might One once said? Never judge a ledger by its bindings?"

'Never judge a book by its cover,' he could just hear Virgil correcting.

'Yeah, or a chicken by his feathers,' the Mighty One would quip, just to be corrected in a very irritated manner that Lumerians are fowls.

Well, no sense in brooding too much. The unnecessarily heavy and sharp blade seemed to weigh a bit heavily on his back, a bit more than usual, and if battle would not find him then he would find it. Which... would be easier said than done. After hours sitting on a broken boulder all he beheld was a little green creature scurrying through the thicket, shrieking in surprise at the towering Human, and vanishing down what seemed to be an oversized rabbit hole. Strange, yes, but after the disturbing nature of one Professor Zygote and a murderous master of skulls forcing at least one reality reset the goblins presence did not phase him.

What did phase him was the sudden shadow looming over a shoulder. At first he did not notice it, still far to used to the thick inky darkness that detailed his world, but when the sun behind him faded from his eye's corner did he start to glance back into a green fist sailing for his head. Being knocked off his perch definitely phased him even more. Shake his head, blink, push off the ground, rise to full height and snarl, he went through the usual routine that follows getting comedically knocked about before pausing. Feeling sorry for himself would be alleviated by flattening the dumb fool of a monster that sucker-punched him.

Slightly above, there is the sun.

Straight ahead, the horizon.

Below his chin, a balding green head.

He looks down. The Hobgoblin looks up. A Guardian blinks, a bit impressed by how such a rotund and smelly creature could sneak so close and knock him sideways. A bane of mortals blinks, that large green head rattling a tiny green brain around enough to realize this Human stood a bit too tall for its liking. That punch should have knocked that Human's ruddy-brown mane clear off his shoulders, not leave the large Goblin starring up at a rather confused warrior. For the first time in its life it feels that electrified tingle of fight-or-flight kicking in against a rather resilient opponent. Correction, only flight. A sadistic grin and cracking knuckles is not what the Hobgoblin ever wanted to see and hear, let alone any Goblin for that manner.

Before the setting sun the smaller sentry peaks its head back out of the burrow, along with two more of its spear-wielding brethren. Goat-like eyes snap about and dark shadows whip around their bald pallets, following a wild fury of limbs. All three wince at a wet crack and jerk backwards as the Hobgoblin topples forward and nearly lands on top of them, giving a front-row view of a bruised and swollen head now lacking even more yellow teeth.

"That's it?"

The dazed Hobgoblin's eyes had spread apart from that blow. Blinking a few times stops the world from spinning. It huffs, blowing dust into the gawking runts and plants its meaty palms into the earth to rise up. No sooner is the unnaturally tall Human in its peripheral does it throw a haymaker at the man's side. It does not even have time to blink this time, let alone realize its knuckles were intercepted by a calloused hand. At the very least the lumbering Hobgoblin realizes that the punch thrown back at its head will dislocate its fanged jaw.

"Ho!" the Guardian laughs, right on queue with his swing sending the Hobgoblin spinning back around. "Too slow!" He sidesteps the spittle raining from a flopping green jaw, including the bulk that drunkenly swings back around to try and hammer both green fists down on his head. "Slow and STUPID!" Feet brace. Hips pivot. Shoulder flexes. All of that fat does not cushion internal organs against a blow from a man who once threw a smilodon around like a bola.

Down goes the Hobgoblin. After it comes the Human. The waning sun begins to cast deep and hostile shadows, the likes of which this world rarely sees.

The sort of shadows that feel just like home.

The Hobgoblins feet kick about without their owner's control. A bit comical to an outsider, seeing the Guardian punch a sadistic creature's head around hard enough to have its legs cartoonishly twitch. A bit less comical to the sentries gazing wide-eyed at the monstrous man who clearly did not need to rely on the single pauldron and layered plating about an arm for protection. That is when a woman's scream echoed back up the tunnel and all at once the pummeling stops.

It is the sort of agonized scream that he knows all too well. Dark eyes shift towards the three sentries. Three green Goblins. Three green diminutive figures that his mind's eye sees with faces that are not built around a bulbous nose. Three terrified runts that to him appear more and more like the Axeman when the screaming does not stop.

Perhaps that is why the ancients redirected the portal to here. Perhaps it is due to the gods above finding a tiny plastic figure of a warrior who went by the names of Lancelot, Little John and Hercules long ago. Someone, or something, mistook the Loke-Yaw for a creature similar to the Goblins and decided to roll the dice alongside a playset now sitting on a gameboard detailing a Goblin's nest. They saw a means to shake up the world with a mighty force imported from another setting. The Guardian saw a vision of a hated foe best only by a master of skulls and a murderer with a treebranch through his head.

The sentries realized the third member of their group was just plucked from their hole and sent screaming heat-first into a tree at nearly the speed of sound.

Night falls. Powerful shadows cast throughout the cave. A Goblin Shaman deep within the cave peers up from its own Cimmerian pose and frowns. Nostrils flare, searching for the scent of rain through the broken bodies wafting through the chamber. Strange. It is as though the sound of thunder is rolling closer and closer...

...Except thunder does not sound like a Viking roaring about a Loke-yaw.