He tosses a leather pouch onto the floor between you. It clinks.
He leans back. The throne groans.
Kettrik continues. “Heart gave out during a raid on a halfling granary. Pathetic. Now his brat—a bugbear with half a brain and twice the ego—wants to lead the tribe west to the Coast Road. ‘Easy pickings,’ he says.” The hobgoblin spits. “Easy graves. There’s a fort there. Wood elves. Archer towers. My scouts counted thirty longbows.” goblinoids 5e
He grins. The metal plate over his jaw makes it look like his face is splitting in half. He tosses a leather pouch onto the floor between you
He leans forward, and you hear the faint creak of his rusted plate armor. The throne groans
He doesn’t rise. He doesn’t shout. He just points a jagged longsword at the muddy floor in front of him.
The fire pops. Shadows make the cave walls seem to crawl with old victories: a faded banner of Maglubiyet, a line of goblin skulls on stakes, and a crude map of the surrounding valley marked with tiny banners.