Chapter 1:
Ma and Pa Goblin didn’t set out to take in and lead a clan. It was just something that kinda fell into place on its own. They attempted to build something solid, and one by one, the others showed up.
Some were gathered up and brought in from an old home where many lived before settin’ off on their own to build something more structured. Some arrived wrapped in fog, wandering down from the higher ridges with names half forgotten. Others were found on the cabin porch in the early morning, curled up in baskets that smelled faintly of moonshine and blackberry jam. A few followed them home and just never left after a raid. It’s a certainty some had gotten lost in the deep backwoods, settling in with sheer exhaustion after finally finding a clan that had some sort of consistent provision. The clan grew, as holler things do, not fast, but steady. Roots beginning to dig in. Bound more by shared battle scars than shared names.
Long before their little slice of the holler was theirs, before the war sheds stood sturdy against the wind and arrows, before the spell jars lined Ma’s shelves, many of the goblin kin were scattered. Some were trapped in clans that had long rotted from the inside, but many were still present with Ma inside an old clan deep in the hills, named for the gods of Olympus. Not the spirits of Appalachia, but the high and haughty gods of myth, distant and cold. It was meant to portray glory and power. Maybe once it did. But by the time Ma arrived, the light had already begun to fade. The leader had disappeared, and no one knew if he was coming back. Because of this, wars were started with no real direction, with clan members who often didn’t show for their attacks.
There wasn’t much structure, but it had more than many were used to. Plenty of the creatures who called it home meant well, even if they lacked discipline, strategy, or an enforcer presence to keep them in line.
They weren’t humans, though they borrowed human ways. And they don’t marry like humans do; they partner up strategically, not for some romantic notion. Some were goblins, others cryptids born of fog and root, kin of the ridgerunners, the coal eyed watchers, and the mossbacks who never fully stepped into the daylight. Hidden by charm, by bramble, and sometimes just a good smudge spell scraped into tree bark.
They weren’t all kin, not in the way humans understand it. In the world of the folklore folk, kin is a matter of bond and loyalty, not blood. A matter of who fights beside you, not who shares your name or blood line.
Ma kept things running best she could. Patched holes with encouragement, kept goblins together with a wooden spoon that was more for threat than real discipline, and a heavy dose of grace. But Ma wasn’t a battle tactician. She wasn’t born into war. She wasn’t harsh. And while she did have the kind of heart that gathered folk in, made them feel like family, gave them a place to belong, that alone couldn’t win wars.
In the holler within the holler, wars were a way of life. Conflict carved out territory. Raids brought in resources. Even the humans on the other side of the trees whispered about it, blaming the missing livestock or busted sheds on things they couldn’t see (or sometimes things they thought they saw). But the cryptids of the holler? They knew.
Then came Pa.
Quiet at first. Watchful, with a sharp eye. Ma didn’t even remember when he showed up, just that he was suddenly there. Maybe he was one she had scouted at some point. She made it a habit every so often to slip invitations into the pockets of those she happened across who seemed like they may make good additions to the clan. Perhaps he saw the notice she had nailed on a fence post saying “we need fighters”. Maybe he happened to just be passin’ by and decided to slip in. In any case, the first time she noticed him was when he popped up right before a barely pieced together war and asked, “So, is there a plan? Or does everyone just kinda do what they feel like?”
She hadn’t known then just how seasoned he was. Years in the fight. Ma asked if he had ideas. He did. Offered suggestions. Didn’t try to take over. Whispered better paths. Drew patterns in the soot that others had missed, explained proper funneling into a base and priority take down of aerial weapons. Had Ma give the orders, even when they were his. And if orders were defied, he jumped in quick to enforce them.
Some of the cryptid clan responded. A few bristled. Said the new ways were too tight, too rigid. Some left, others got the boot for not following the new way. Pa was about winning and he made it known to all who slacked. But Pa also had a knack for guiding the willing with his knowledge of war. A soft spot for genuine effort, even if the outcome wasn’t perfect. He taught patiently. Encouraged. And when folk refused to try or ignored orders, he corrected. Firmly. Swiftly. And occasionally, someone was dragged to the gate and tossed out completely. “At some point, we gotta get rid of the dead weight if we wanna win,” he told Ma.
Attacks improved. Wars were won. Even if, as Pa put it, it was like herding cats.
Uncle Kinxy showed up from the southern hemisphere, dragging a busted cart of makeshift distillery equipment, a jug of moonshine, and a story Ma still hasn’t heard the end of. He was sharp in ways that showed he’d lived more than he let on. Youngish in years, but old in instinct. He understood strategy like Pa, had an eye for it, although he sometimes overestimated a goblin’s ability. There was talk that he was Pa’s long lost brother, or cousin, or possibly an illegitimate goblin child born out of a long forgotten trip during some of Pa’s wilder days. Stories by the camp fire were lively at times between the goblins and tall tales were rampant, especially when cousin Cletus had stolen from Uncle Kinxy’s moonshine stash and passed it around.
Uncle Kinxy spoke with purpose, battled hard, and fell into step with Pa like they’d been sparrin’ together for years.
One morning, after a particularly frustrating war of wrangling and chasing down wayward goblin warriors for attacks in the old clan (“sheer hell”, Pa called it), Pa poured his coffee slow and looked at Ma across the steam rising from his cup.
“What are your thoughts on leaving this place and building our own holler?” he asked. “Start it fresh. Do it right. Give it structure. Order. A place where effort matters and slackers don’t stall us out. Might be just me and you at first. But the ones who want something better? They’ll follow.”
Ma didn’t hesitate. She nodded. She’d been thinkin’ the same. Just hadn’t said it aloud, being unsure of his commitment to stick around the clan.
And so they did.
Pa left first to carve out the new space. Ma stayed behind a spell, rounded up the smallest goblins, left breadcrumbs for the bigger ones who still had some fight in ‘em. And when she finally left that old crumbling clan behind, it was with little regret. There were some who chose to stay behind that she knew she’d miss, but she also knew that if she stayed, it wouldn’t get better, and she’d be out looking for a new home anyway and maybe losing some of the goblins in the process.
Most followed Ma and Pa to the new home in the holler. The rest? Some vanished like mist. Others still sit quiet, waitin’ for orders that ain’t comin’. Ma and Pa made it known their doors were open in the new holler and held out hope that the rest of the good ones would find their way to them. Uncle Kinxy was promoted to help and he jumped right into his role. After the very first war in the new clan, Pa handed him new boots, out of tradition, for bootin’ goblins who deserved it. Uncle Kinxy took it like it was a weapon forged just for him, and the goblin holler had a new enforcer. He used his boots with pride, polishin’ and keepin’ them ready to use as soon as his toe started tinglin’ an alert that someone had to go.
Some kin still talk about the exodus in whispers. Others act like it never happened. But the new holler? It’s growin’ roots now. It’s got structure. Rituals. Connection.
And best of all? It’s theirs.
Family in the holler ain’t about blood. It’s about who shows up. Who crawls outta the mines and hauls loot without cryin’. Who follows the plan, takes their lickin’ if it’s earned, and still shows up again next war.
That’s the holler goblin way.
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