Taskmaster Lloyd Ghoulihan

Hired as a pimply Goblin teenager, Lloyd Ghoulihan has been with Subterranean Pits and Lairs, LLC in one capacity or another for fifteen years. For over a decade he toiled as a Pit Clerk, then Assistant to the Shift Underlord, until his entire department was massacred by a renegade Gwarglebeast, unintentionally unearthed during a hush-hush mining operation, deep in Orfong’s Dungeon. As the only survivor, Ghoulihan was promoted to Taskmaster.

As Taskmaster, it’s Ghoulihan’s primary role to sow seeds of fear, mistrust, and anguish both amongst his staff and the poor unfortunates he’s assigned to torture horribly in the name of Orfong the Defiler.

Ironically, Ghoulihan actually used to be quite chummy with Rickety Stitch–until his promotion. The very next day, he confiscated the Gelatinous Goo’s dowry chest, and set fire to Stitch as he slept on the job.

Taskmaster Ghoulihan is a company man to the tee; cruel, petty, and obedient. He is to be crossed at one’s own peril, as it is a well known truth that Goblins never, ever shake free of a grudge, and never, ever forgive.

Sir Maglamore of Waed

Sir Maglamore of Waed, a self-appointed Sir, and questing knight of no Order in particular, was killed by fish.

Being a lifelong lover of ancient tales of chivalric knights and deeds of derring-do, Sir Maglamore could not have imagined such an ignoble, forgettable death. He had hoped for something grander, something that the minstrels and songweavers would be singing about for generations to come. Instead, he died alone and cold, unknown to anyone at all.

As a boy, his small township was leveled by Goblin entrepreneurs intent on expanding their tunnels beneath the foundations of his homestead. When his people refused to comply, the Goblins, like the glorified bandits they were, razed the thatch-roofed huts, and drove the remaining few villagers off into the wilderness. With no family, and nothing to his name, Sir Maglamore vowed to avenge his people, and rid the land of Goblins and their vile avarice.

But life as a lone vigilante-knight proved to be difficult. He hadn’t the resources to stand against the corporate dungeon machine; after all, he was a self-appointed Sir. As luck would have it, however, while he tarried along the Middle-Route Run across the vast expanse of Mucklands, a crumpled flier came dancing down the road on a billowing wind: “Meat teh King uv Grimly Would,” it read. A King? Sir Maglamore had never heard of a living King. A real, live King with a castle! Surely this King could not abide the sorry state of the world, and the hordes of fiends and rapscallions who prospered in a lawless age. Sir Maglamore would gain this King’s audience. He would serve this King. He would rid the land of Goblins in this King’s name.

But when Sir Maglamore came upon Castle Lake, the small rope-hauler dinghy was on the opposite end of the moat. Adorned in full plate mail, he thought better of swimming in the murky waters, but as days passed and no one exited or entered the keep, the knight plunged into the lake grasping at the rope to pull himself along.

At first it was a tickle, like a lady gently caressing his liver, or his brain. Then an itch. A searing itch in his heart. When he emerged from the lake, he tried desperately to remove his armor, but this strange feeling had tugged at his very soul: everything he had ever believed was wrong. What was he doing here? Who was the King in this castle? What was the point of it all? When his eyes finally blinked away the water, and he tried to peer out the slit in his visor, all he could see were fish–black, wriggling demon-eyed fish, with smiles so wide they blotted out the sun.

Shumwise the Shrym

Hailing from the pocked and craggy plains of Shrym, Shumwise the Shrym had an unremarkable childhood. Huddled with his seventy brothers and sisters underground, below the constant sandstorms and skyfires, and the mad-stomping of Ettin ant-farmers, Shumwise had barely conceived of a life outside his packhole until his 19th year. That was when his entire tunnel-town was killed by a roving knot of migrating Spitsnakes. Shumwise would have met his demise as well, had he not used each and every scrambling head of his brothers and sisters as a step stool up to the light of day.

These days, Shumwise is by trade a grave robber. Not simply because of his keen tunneling abilities and familiarity with the cramped underground, but because his moral code is remarkably flexible. After his town was slaughtered, Shumwise returned days later, pilfering the riches and trinkets of the dead. After all, dead Shryms have no use for golden teeth or ducal rings, and living Shryms, of course, do. Especially Shumwise the Shrym, who is now up to his ears in inescapable gambling debts owed to, unsurprisingly, an Ettin ant-farmer named Kag Nok.

Not unlike rats or shrews, Shryms in general enjoy hoarding fine foods and treasure. They are known throughout Eem for their ingenious engineering: elaborate pulley systems that web their tunnel-towns, and dust-powered engines that chug in convoys across the vast desert. While Shryms are scattered all over Eem, those indigenous to Shrym rarely ever venture from their towns or convoys for fear of the terrible weather phenomena, and horrendous monstrosities that roam the plains. Shumwise, on the other hand, has been assured in no uncertain terms, that if he ever returns to Shrym, he’ll be basted in man-jelly and hurled into a writhing, spitsnake bacchanalia.