Rider

Shorter than average goblin.   Moonlight spills through the canopy in ragged strips as the Rider grips the snarling hackles of a great wolf. Its paws pound earth, claws digging into roots. Across the Heathlands, the Rider’s voice leaps in a war-chant—or is it laughter? Above the din of bowstrings and club strikes, the Rider and wolf emerge like a living arrow, closing distance in leaps and lunges that surprise.     These Riders are small—but their wolves are not. Wolf hides ripple with muscle. The goblin rider, perched lightly on the wolf’s thick pelt, wields a spear or a kukri, delivering lethal thrusts, then slipping away through undergrowth while their mount vanishes into shadow behind them. Between trees, across ridgelines, in flares of torchlight—they strike, vanish, leave nightmares in their wake. To face a Rider is to realize how fast danger can travel when wild heart and wolf-teeth ride as one.