We rode for an hour before Sourtooth whistled and pointed north. Girmaks pulled the buggy left, leading the convoy away from the main pack of the Stampede. I stood up in my seat and looked out at the main body of orcs as we distanced ourselves from them. The thunder of hooves fell away, leaving only the sound of rough-burning engines on bare rock and scrub.

"We're not joining them?"

Sourtooth held his hand up to the sun. "We need not follow the Dawn for we aim not to unseat them. Lura possesses skill unmatched, and many would claim glory by knocking down her standing at the fore. We seek only to place. Leave glory to youth, little brother."

A smaller pack of riders also broke off from the main group, keeping their distance but also clearly following in our trail.

I turned to face the old orc. "We've got company,"

He nodded. "Aye, the Blood Gorgers, should my eyes favor me. A complicated dance is the Stampede, with steps aplenty. They will interfere, should it look as though we may bring down a halting totem. Make no mistake, there will be blood on the steppe."

Yikes. "Is that what happened to you?"

"Aye. Was ruled fair by the keepers, though just. And if tides favor, they may lend aid, instead."

I wished I had a pair of binoculars so I could get a better look at our pursuers. "Orc games sure are cutthroat," I said. "What are keepers?"

Sourtooth pointed a couple vehicles back, to where a hooded orc crouched atop a buggy, working beads between her fingers. I hadn't noticed before that she didn't have an armband to link her with the Flock. Instead, she had coal-black markings around her eyes and nose, and under her cheeks—giving her a bit of a skull-like appearance. Her eyes being closed only added to the effect.

"The keeper job lets they who have it speak to each other through the elder spirits. They see the Stampede and make rulings, and call halts when confirmed is a kill." The old orc held up 3 fingers. "But they also tell us the progress of the other teams. There are 21 foes chosen. The festival will end when once more totem beasts are killed—monsters of scale and fang, legend they. With the thundercleave claimed, fallen have 12. A third their number to Lura's spears, and some fewer to our other rivals. But numbers matter little, as weighted points are applied—by level, rarity, ferocity, and size factored. All you need know is that should 1 more kill the dawn huntress claim, no one may overtake her. Should it look as though she'll claim it with haste, our company may lend aid to clip her wings and force a stop."

"I see." I said, thoroughly confused by the internal orc tournament politics. "So, 3 unique monsters left. I take it one of them is that whistler thing?"

"Aye. But, too strong for we. A dart-wing, I think, we should pursue—a day east of us, its hunting grounds. With these mounts of iron and flame, she could outrun us not long, and she is much less a foe than a horn-beast if we need only place."

"Why doesn't Lura just kill one to end the hunt right away?"

Sourtooth laughed. "Glory, little brother. The reason of her sending you to my side. She seeks to break a standing long-held by my grandfather in points. And she may well do." Sourtooth spit off the side of the buggy. "Curse his spirit, the foul old orc."

A bit ironic, coming from him, I thought.

"Asides, tis not a thing so simply done," said Sourtooth. "Finding the beast is part of the challenge, and so is safeguarding it. Lura's Dawn Light are numbered only second to the Blood Gorgers, who will at nothing stop to claim her kills. They follow her just as they stalk our footprints."

We came across a herd of the hoppers, and Sourtooth sent two of our bikes and one trike to wrangle them while we continued on. We rode until the sun slipped behind the horizon and then made camp.

The flock had animals of their own that needed to be fed and watered, even as we topped off fuel bladders for buggies and bikes. I took a walk around the perimeter of the camp with Armstrong.

<Your tribe has decreased to 397 members>

<Your tribe has decreased to 393 members>

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Huh? I shared a glance with Armstrong.

<Your tribe has assimilated 25 new members>

<Your tribe has increased to 418 members>

<Congratulations! Assimilating new tribe members through persuasive religious conversion for the first time has unlocked an optional job for non-variant goblins! You may choose between goblin zealots or goblin templar.>

"Nice!" said Armstrong. "Eileen musta got 'em to a new village."

I narrowed my eyes. How exactly is this 'persuasive conversion' performed?

<Typically by removing elements who are not persuaded from the target audience.>

Great. There was only one thing this could be: Luther's canoneer aboard Gerty reaching another bluff and spreading the doctrine of the Church of the Right Angle had resulted in a significant scuffle, which wouldn't have lasted long against even superior numbers due to our technology that I had to assume was more advanced than any other tribe in the area.

Did the assimilated tribe even have any variants?

<The tribe had evolved Goblin Flatulators, but they are quite volatile and were all killed during the persuasion, and thus were not assimilated with the remainder of the tribe.>

Volatile goblin flatulators… that sounded like a mixed blessing, if I'm being honest.

Tell me about zealots and templar.

<Goblin zealots are especially zealous goblins. They receive bonus combat skills and crafting speed when assigned to a noblin canoneer, and additional bonuses when fighting or working alongside other zealots and canoneers through the Fervor skill. They will also never break morale in combat. Non-variant goblins may occasionally become zealots.>

<Goblin templar are defensive goblins capable of absorbing 1 lethal blow without dying, even if the templar was not the intended target of the attack. This is particularly useful to safeguard rare or important variant goblins through the use of the Ward skill. They will also never break morale in combat. Non-variant goblins may occasionally become templar.>

Get down Mr. President, huh? Alright, let me think.

As much as I liked the idea of extra-life goblins, zealots seemed to have a lot of potential as well. Zealots receiving a bonus for fighting and crafting with other zealots nearby had the potential for limitless scaling. The only problem was, I didn't know if this bonus scaled with the number of zealots or if it was a binary thing.

<Additional variant information available upon selection.>

Yeah, that's why I didn't ask. I sighed, already wondering if I was going to regret this. Give me the zealots.

<Goblin Zealots will now spawn in your tribe. Would you like to automatically assign zealots to canoneers based on spawn location?>

Yes please.

<12 of the newly acquired tribe members have converted to goblin zealots>

<66 other goblins in your tribe have converted to goblin zealots>

Woah, woah! That's nearly a fifth of the non-variants! You said occasionally!

<Occasionally they will. Now they have.>

I ground my teeth. Friggen System. Give me the deets on the Fervor skill.

<Fervor: Goblin Zealots gain a moderate bonus to tasks directed by a canoneer, and a small bonus for all other zealots assigned to the same task>

I breathed a sigh of relief. It was cumulative scaling, not binary. With some reluctance, I opened up the spawning menu and increased the canoneer priority. Slightly. Confident I'd chosen the right variant, I turned and headed back to camp.

Already, several of the non-variant goblins had switched jobs to Zealots, and they had removed their skull masks in order to carve or draw various religious iconography onto the dry bones. I saw sketches of eccentric shafts, propellers, kilns, starter pistols, regular pistols, and a variety of other technologies we'd canonized as part of the Church of the Right Angle. The most common was simply the circle of Raphina on the forehead. Because festooning one's self with arcane symbols was a sign of a stable, rational adherent of science. But at least it was a religious devotion to progress and the scientific process, and not to an invisible man in the sky—

<Ahem.>

—no offense to present company.

<None taken.>

Sourtooth limped up, watching the goblins who had so suddenly abandoned their tasks. "I know not what my eyes do see," he said.

"Ah," I said. "My tribe just unlocked another variant," I said. "Zealots."

"And what are they?"

I tilted my head. "Goblins, except even more manic than usual."

Sourtooth shook his head. "This truly is a land of madness, to have you visited upon its shores."

"Not going to cull us like you would in Kelem, are you?" I asked cautiously.

"We are on Kelem not, little brother," said Sourtooth. He glanced at the vehicles and the Ifrit flitting about the camp in their personal vessels. The old orc rubbed at the white stubble on his chin. "The elder spirits are playing at some mischief, mark me. I know not where their twisted plan ends, but be it not upon my spear, little brother. Not when life breathed once more into the Flock."

He looked back down at me. "Tarry not long. There is work to be done before the fall of night. And we rise with the dawn. Tomorrow we will find a dart-wing, and we will drive it to the ground before Lura takes her next kill, or your people will starve."

I waved as the old orc trotted off, started to get the hang of his new prosthetic. There was indeed work to be done. The S&M Club had taken to hammering and wrenching on the vehicles to keep them in good working order, so I worked with Promo on the buggies and continued on the modifications until dinner.

As the sun dropped and the day cooled, I munched on a hot hopper burger and thought about what Sourtooth said. We are on Kelem not.

Lanclova was a land of monsters and goblins, fire spirits, and more. The rest; the orcs and humans and elves were strangers to these lands. I was technically the native, even if I'd come from earth. Like it or not, I was responsible for what happened here, and I was making big waves.

I just hoped they didn't end up drowning me.

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