Here is a story born out of playing of Breath of the Wild during lockdown, and deciding to give the Bokoblins' lankier cousins a voice.
(Some headcannons for clarity:)
Monsters reproduce by deuterotoky parthenogenesis, and as a result there is hardly any sexual dimorphism between the sexes – such that the vast majority of Hyruleans cannot tell them apart.
Male Moblin horns are very impressive, but break easily, and are the first thing a female inspects on a potential mate. (A female Moblin's horn is a lot stronger, hence why the competition is pivotal – it provides proof of the male's strength).
'Pifflings' (a made-up word) - a derogatory form of address for Hyruleans, refering to Hylians in particular.
The heat of the day was beginning to get to him.
Urgh grunted irritably as a mellow wind buffeted his leathery skin, infusing his head with a longing for blissful slumber. The gentle chirping of the numerous birds perched hidden in the branches above did nothing to help matters, and the freckles of sunlight filtering through the playful leaves tempted him with their placid warmth.
With a huge yawn, Urgh forced his tiredness aside and rolled his shoulders, loosening the stiff muscles. Some metres away, a bored-looking Mal rubbed her snout clean, shaking away the strands of mucus that clung to her hand; further down the towering figure of Prog hastily looked around to see if anyone had caught him dozing in the cool shade. There hadn't been any travellers down this particular stretch in a long time – no rotten Hylian pifflings prancing where they pleased as if all the land was theirs, swinging tiny swords with easily-broken arms and their feeble faces full of confidence. Until they put one wrong foot too close to monster territory.
A twisted amalgam of a savage grin and a bitter scowl formed on Urgh's face at that. The last time any of them had had a real fight, it had been many, many red moons ago, and yet the memory still brought a sour taste to Urgh's throat and rekindled the flickering embers of animosity that would burn in his chest forever. The rotten piffling had cheated, he had to have, devious and full of tricks where he was lacking in strength and managing to gore Mal badly in her stomach. Prog had successfully hounded him right into Urgh's path where the Moblin had stood, frozen with silent fury, before mercilessly swinging his gigantic club with a tremendous bellow of rage.
The piffling hadn't stood a chance.
With a stomach-churning crunch, his broken form landed some metres away on the uneven path, face disfigured so badly it was nearly impossible to tell it had once been Hylian - a ragdoll sprawled in a pool of red.
Nearby, a clamour of excited grunts dissolved the memory and Urgh turned with an annoyed snort towards the source of the sound, knowing full well who the offenders were. Small eyes squinted at the trio of Bokoblins, all of whom had stood up in yet another burst of random elation and begun to dance around their blazing fire. Despite having witnessed this curious display multiple times throughout his life, Urgh was still perplexed by the lack of rhyme or reason to their actions. Moblins such as his himself would partake in certain rituals at their camps that, while enjoyable, were for the sole purpose of intimidation – with only the bravest or most foolish piffling (he was inclined to go with the latter) daring to come within two feet of them. Strong legs struck the bare earth into submission while they threw back their chests and flailed powerful long arms, bellowing to the heavens and asserting dominance over their land. In stark contrast, the smaller blins pranced in grotesque fashion on the spot as though they were having a fit, laughing and squealing while disproportionate limbs were flung around in a manner that would barely rouse a slumbering keese.
It was really quite bizarre.
Laced with frustration, a huff reached Urgh's ears; he turned yet again to find the gangling Gurk approaching him. His junior raised one arm in the direction of the Bokoblin camp and huffed again, louder this time, as the Bokoblin archer keeping a watchful eye on their surroundings merely glanced over him. Gurk was making his dissatisfaction apparent, and Urgh could understand why. Personally, while he was by no means unhappy with the job he had – patrol their territory every day, keep an eye out for intruders and occasionally hunt (they could go without food far longer than their smaller counterparts) – it had gotten tedious with the conspicuous lack of pifflings, who had once made their duty (duty?) so worthwhile. And yes, there were moments where Urgh felt a strong blaze of irritation towards the Bokoblins they were meant to be patrolling with (meant to?) for their lack of focus, abandoning their post far too regularly to hunt, and the relentless squealing that often exceeded long after the moon had risen.
(He had grabbed and smashed the leading blue's face into tree trunks more often than he could count, but the message never seemed to get through that, while the tale of Karr the Black blundering into a Lynel's territory with nothing but a palm fruit to hand was very entertaining, there were only so many times Urgh was willing to put up with it before both the story and the speaker were quite literally cut short).
But then, Urgh contemplated as he swatted Gurk's head and growled over the indignant sputters, that was how it had always been. And though he racked his tiny brain, no alternative really came to mind. Despite the few drawbacks (disappointing though they were), he was content with the sole task his life was dedicated to - and so, he ordered with an authoritative rumble, should Gurk. Snuffling with disgruntled agreement, the latter carefully hoisted a well-made club over his shoulder and stomped off to his station, where he sat with his back turned pointedly away from the chattering and laughter that carried over on the warm breeze.
Like a droplet of water running down a leaf, midday slid imperceptibly into late afternoon. Mal had long given up her patrol and was now snoring in the shade, one long arm draped almost protectively over the snaking scar across her midriff. For a certain amount of time just before the dawn of the first red moon, Urgh had been considering the strong, aggressive female as a potential mate. And he hadn't been the only one. Four other juvenile Moblins had had their eyes on the older female as well despite her blatantly ignoring all of them, instead choosing to devote her time to ruthlessly cutting down on the number of females available. Spring had emerged that year with blazing ferocity, decorating the ruined grass with fragments of bone and horn and painting the hills a deep, sinister mauve. (A distant memory once recalled it being a different colour; a rich seafoam, lost to the tides of time).
Drenched in sweat and the remnants of his opponents, the victor made his way over to a now interested Mal. Exhausted though he was, the battle wasn't won yet. Panting heavily, Urgh stood, head-bowed, as his target paced around him, sniffing and inspecting. His breathing halted as she scrutinised his horn closely. He had done his best to keep it out of the way of marauding claws since the pride of every male Moblin was often the first to go in a brawl – destroying any opportunity to further pursue a mate that year. Even so it had gotten chipped in places, and Urgh waited apprehensively for Mal's response. A few moments later, she drew back with a satisfied snort.
Urgh scarcely had time to catch his breath in relief before she rammed into him with all her strength, almost bowling him over. Hurriedly, he placed his feet firmly in the soil and planted his aching arms against her collarbone. Mouth twisted in a ferocious snarl, Mal bore down on him; Urgh roared in response as his muscles strained to force her back. If he were to collapse it would all be over, leaving an opportunity for another male to pursue the victorious female over his mutilated corpse. Bellowing with all the rage her vicious Moblin nature allowed, Mal pushed further, and with a jolt of alarm Urgh felt his weary legs buckle.
NO.
He hadn't gotten this far for nothing.
It was victory, or death – and Urgh wasn't planning on dying.
With all the strength he could muster, Urgh heaved Mal to the side, where the hill steeped sharply downwards. She gave a snort of confusion that quickly turned to alarmed realisation as her knees crumpled under their new position. On the quite literal upper ground, it hit Urgh like a thunderclap that this was the opportunity he had been looking for. Perspiration flowed in rivulets down the deep purple streaks that coated his crimson form, and the scent of demise clung to the very air around them. Nonetheless, he lifted his aching head and shot the hell-bent Mal a savage, gleeful grin.
Then with a determined roar, Urgh pushed hard against her protruding clavicle.
Mal struggled only for an instant. With nowhere to gain firm footing, she went careening over the edge of the cliff, her long limbs flailing like the wings of an injured bird as she struggled to break her fall. Loathe to waste even a second his plan had brought him, the male Moblin leapt down after her. The knee-jerking impact of the fall sent a paralysing buzz throughout his body, followed by the rapid onslaught of agony that almost forced him to the ground. But he was so close. Mal lay splayed on the grass a few metres off, panting heavily with beads of blood clinging to her lips and snout. She saw caught sight of him and struggled to rise. One hand – the underside dripping deep purple - was clutching her left side while the other balled into a tightened fist as she turned to face him.
Those pale blue eyes were murderous.
Whatever damage he had done, was woefully not enough.
For a moment, the two surveyed each other. Urgh's legs were throbbing with the unbearable heat of damage and fatigue. Hampered though she was by her own injuries, Mal had the upper hand as far as manoeuvrability was concerned since her torso had absorbed most of the impact. The low, vicious rumbling that reverberated through the tense air confirmed that she had quickly reached the same conclusion. Urgh felt a pang of dread as the female steadied herself, yet it was tinged with a warm respect – she was certainly no fool. Another spike of pain darted up the Moblin's calves and nestled deep into his pubic bone; gritting his teeth, he forced himself to instead observe Mal and the way in which she was postured – all signs pointing to her intent to bowl into him and tear his head clean off his shoulders.
The leaves rustled in anticipation.
The wind stilled.
Then a sound as though a medium-sized Talus had smashed into the ground.
His foot planted firmly on her chest and tendons screaming as though a swarm of keese were sinking their fangs into him, Urgh's claws closed around Mal's horn. Her roars swelled with fury and pain as a sickening crunch resounded through the air. Pressing on, Urgh felt something sharp pierce the sole of his foot as he tightened his grip; Mal's bloody fingers scrabbled at his calves, smearing the tattered bandages with clumps of earth and gore. He was close, so close, vision blurred with a cocktail of sweat and exhausted tears, break, damn you, you stupid, stubborn horn, break-
A crack. A split. A web of lines.
And Mal's never-before broken horn came away in his hands.
Overwhelmed, Urgh stood in stunned silence. Stared at his trophy, its dull grey colour positively agleam with sweat, lavishly decorated with flecks of blood and cushioned in a nest of keratin shards. His legs felt worryingly numb after that frantic sprint, and Urgh was dimly aware that he wasn't sure whether it was due to exertion or if they were damaged beyond repair.
In any case, it didn't matter. All that mattered now was the fragment of bone clenched in his fist, and the ragged breathing of his now equal breaking the thick tension that had hung in the air. Despite the rhythmic pounding in his skull, Urgh looked up. Gone was the rigidity in her limbs; Mal relaxed heavily in the grass, obscuring her shattered ribs from view with a grimace. Like an incoming tide, victory-fuelled adrenaline blossomed from the fiery ache that was coursing through his body, and for that sheer blissful moment the burning pain in his legs vanished. With a triumphant bellow, Urgh flung his arms out in raw ecstasy, relief cooling the tense muscles. Meanwhile, Mal's lips were upturned with dry amusement and under the exhaustion her eyes shone with a begrudging respect.
But that despicable piffling put paid to the short-lived happiness - and destroyed her in a way that nothing else could.
Since that night Mal had withdrawn from him, and with a grievous heart, he her. Not three months following his victory he had lost his prize and the pride that would have come with it, and while she still stood and slept and breathed not a few metres away, a chasm had been forcefully rent between the two of which there was no crossing. The following year saw plenty of ferocious females, and yet not a single one compared to the stronger senior whom he had fought so staunchly for. As the years melded into decades under the recurring eye of the bleeding moon, the number of females coming back seemed to strangely decrease - while those that did return had, like Mal, been struck with infertility: from a very different source.
'Tis the desire of the Calamitous One,' monsters would whisper to each other: in consolation, in defeat, with grim acceptance or a desperate optimism for the compensation of this unwilling sacrifice.
For all this meant…
It was so quiet he almost missed it.
Almost instinctively Urgh reached for his club, ears perked up and posture tense. The sound came again, slightly louder; a subdued grunting that permeated the still dusk and sent a cold shiver down Urgh's skeletal spine. Then, from the gently swaying bushes to his right came a flash of blue: the tiniest tip of a snout. A strange feeling welled up in the Moblin's chest, and he slowly made his way forward, club held aloft and eyes fixated on his target. As he rounded the corner, he visibly started in shock as his suspicions were confirmed. From the dense undergrowth came creeping out, not a wild hog or wandering Chu, but…a tiny Moblin.
A calf.
Time seemed to pause indefinitely as Urgh stared at his mini double in disbelief. It was small, even by calf standards (an age-old memory recalled them being at least double the size), and its miniature snout seemed to be scuffed in various places. However, its little tongue hung out of a gently smiling mouth, and its posture seemed to be strong, if slightly lacking in confidence. Urgh was startled to find the youngster already sporting an impressive horn, and its small, sharp fangs were as yet unbroken. Curiosity won over him, and the larger Moblin began snuffling the newcomer, who stood obediently still in the face of its elder. A strange underlying smell was clinging to the young Moblin, though it was far too faint for Urgh to properly make out. However, it tickled his brain in a way he didn't really like, bringing a sour taste to his mouth and a stiffness to his joints. Lightly, the sweet scent wafted over to him again from beneath the strong, ashy tang all Moblins possessed, and like a thunderclap, it hit him.
Pifflings.
It smelt of the pifflings who would so carelessly come down the path in times long gone.
It smelt of their sweat as they trembled fearfully in the face of their monstrous adversaries.
And it smelt just.
Like.
HIM.
Urgh couldn't stop the snarl that welled up in him at that, and the youngster started. The former gazed unseeing at the waif in front of him, dull mind reeling at this revelation. How many pifflings had this youngster encountered for their repulsive scent to merge with its? Were they to account for the scuffs on its snout, its vacantly staring eyes, its evident combat prowess for one so young? The conspicuous parental absence? Where exactly had the youngster been all this time?
A collection of faint grunts drew his attention back with a jolt. While he'd been engrossed in thought, the calf had hurried some distance off and was now gazing at him apprehensively, its strangely crumpled blue skin mottled in the dying light. Urgh gave a frustrated snort. His head hurt.
Not wanting to startle the youngster any more than he already had, the larger Moblin slowly approached him, the chill evening wind nipping at his ankles. It shifted slightly to the side, and Urgh once more marvelled at how small it was, yet how wary and alert: it clearly knew how to take care of itself. The strange, mournful feeling overcame Urgh once more as he beheld the small figure. It was currently inspecting a snoring Prog, who was sprawled against the gnarled trunk of a weathered tree. Suddenly, a long dormant paternal instinct rose from somewhere within Urgh and took possession of his arms; he reached a hand towards the small monster almost instinctively. Yet some unknown force caused him to falter; the hand drew back, and the arm fell to its side dejectedly.
How he longed to!
But he couldn't.
It wasn't his.
It was just as well the others didn't know.
It was just as well Mal didn't know.
Perhaps, he thought with a heavy sigh as a hollow pit began to form in his suddenly tight stomach, perhaps it was just as well.
Darkness stole across the land and enveloped the hills in its murky shroud, broken only by the pale light of the moon. Glowing, it gazed down almost pensively upon the monster and boy as they stood in the midst of a devastated world. Lifelessly, the once great flags billowed in the cold night breeze, apathetic to their faded colours and fraying edges. Deadened and dormant, bricked sentries stood in confused disarray; the crumbling walls had seen enough disaster over the years to desperately succumb to the pull of nature as soon as it had reared its mossy head.
The calf was growing restless, and Urgh weary. Not a word was exchanged between the two of them, yet they appeared to have made a mutual judgement on each other – that the passage of time and the harsh world they lived in had sculpted them both from the same mould: a steely doggedness to survive, and an unflinching resolve in the face of death's devices.
Urgh forced back a yawn as Gurk's rumbling snores carried over on the wind and looked on tiredly as the young Moblin rummaged busily about its person. He half thought he had fallen into a deep sleep when the small monster pulled out a magnificent hunk of meat from seemingly out of thin air and dropped it in front of him. The youngster – rightfully, Urgh thought, with a small rumble of approval - didn't retaliate when the older Moblin scooped up the meat and ate it with almost indecent enthusiasm. It had weeks since any of them had procured a catch this good, and it only served to increase Urgh's respect and awe for the strange little monster. Hunger abated, the former wiped his leathery lips on the thick bandages tied taut around his arms, only to look up and see a flash of blue disappearing down the uneven path. Once more, a dream-like state overtook Urgh; he found himself subconsciously following its hasty footsteps, a strong ache welling up in his chest as he watched it grow further and further away. A sliver of moonlight danced across its vacant face, before sliding down its neck. Two bright eyes sparkled in the dark.
Urgh stopped. Then he shook his head and turned back towards the patch of land that had been his home for countless moons. It really didn't do to think and feel so much. As the Moblin hastened back to his post, the stars overhead twinkled gently, the same stars that had gazed upon the kingdom long before man or monster had emerged and would continue to do so long after they left. Nothing would remain of them save for faded traces upon the land, succumbing at last to the insatiable hunger of earth and time.
The trees were still, and night slowly slumbered away.
Thanks for reading!