It can't be said that the ugly green-skinned creatures - affectionately referred to as 'Gobbos' by the natives of Sirantil - were particularly smart beings. Indeed, they knew very little of ways of living beyond ganging up on bigger creatures, stabbing them with spears, and running away with their ill-gotten stuff. But it would have to be said that the gobbos that stopped Jornandu, forgotten hero of a lost age, were possibly some of the dumbest of the lot.
On the main road through Conlaoth, they had seized a bridge going over one of the many rivers in the province, demanding a toll to any passerby that came along - after which they'd usually just kill them, search their pockets, and dump them in the fast-flowing water. But on one unusually cold summer evening, they found themselves face to face with a huge, seven foot tall figure swathed in cloth.
Immediately, they began chattering - "Stop! You must pay toll!" "Yes, pay! Pay much!" "You empty big pockets!" - leaving the lone golem quite confused and befuddled. For one, they did not specify what he should be paying with, and he didn't know how much they meant, by 'much'. Did they mean all of what he had? Or just enough that they could all get a piece of whatever they were wanting?
Finally, after much deliberating, he uttered a slow response. "What... payment?" he asked in a deep, magically augmented voice. "Golds!" "Shiny things!" "Civil-man currency!" went the voices, shaking their flint spears - although one gobbo, the second-in-command, began to stand away from the mob, looking a bit nervous... perhaps realizing that it was not a smart thing to harass a creature that could probably kill you by grabbing your head and squeezing.
Jornandu, for his part, was feeling a bit overwhelmed. They wanted gold, which he did not have; but more importantly, why would creatures such as these want gold? More likely, what they needed were better clothes and perhaps some good food, but he didn't have any of those either, save for the ones he was wearing, and those were too big for them. Finally, he spoke up: "I have... no gold for you. I am sorry. I will... pass under river instead."
As he began to walk, though, a single creature threw a spear at the golem - which arched over his head, and stabbed straight into his hat, throwing it off his sculpted head for all to see. Immediately, the screaming began - "Eeeaahh!" "Run! It has no-face!" "Monster! Monster!" - and the foul creatures began to run, as fast their legs could carry them across the bridge and towards safety.
Jorn, for his part, was more distracted by the state of his hat - namely, that it had a big hole in it, and it was his favorite hat to date. Immediately, the construct - who, in all likelihood, had been traveling without rest for far too long - started moaning loudly, his mournful cries echoing across the valley and disturbing the grazing livestock in various farms. As he did so, he stroked the disfigured piece of clothing like it were an injured child. It was his favorite hat. Why did those creatures have to hurt his hat?
